The Perfect Murder

Rocky Bader

Copyright © 2024 by Rocky Bader

All rights reserved.

No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher or author, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law, and except for small portions used in reviews.

This is a book of fiction. Any similarities to real people or events are entirely coincidental.

A Note

Trigger warnings in books seems to be a controversial topic, with some people requiring them and others thinking they are useless. If you are someone who prefers to go into a book blind and you don't care about trigger warnings, feel free to dive right in without reading the rest of this page.

If you are someone who wants trigger warnings, then please note that this book contains themes of domestic violence, narcissistic abuse, verbal and emotional abuse, infertility, and murder. This book also contains some cursing and adult themes.

Enter at your own risk.

This book is dedicated to my husband, who asked me to clarify that this story is in no way based on our marriage.

Love you!

Contents

1. CHAPTER ONE

2. CHAPTER TWO

3. CHAPTER THREE

4. CHAPTER FOUR

5. CHAPTER FIVE

6. CHAPTER SIX

7. CHAPTER SEVEN

8. CHAPTER EIGHT

9. CHAPTER NINE

10. CHAPTER TEN

11. CHAPTER ELEVEN

12. CHAPTER TWELVE

13. CHAPTER THIRTEEN

14. CHAPTER FOURTEEN

15. CHAPTER FIFTEEN

16. CHAPTER SIXTEEN

17. CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

18. CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

19. CHAPTER NINETEEN

20. CHAPTER TWENTY

21. CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

22. CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

23. CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

24. CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

25. CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

26. CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

27. CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

28. CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

29. EPILOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

PRESENT DAY

Julie

“It’s time,” he says weakly, reaching out his hand. Our wedding rings overlap for a brief moment as I hold his trembling hand in mine.

I nod silently. My heart rate quickens. I knew this was coming and I knew what I signed up for, but it doesn’t make me feel any less anxious about what I am about to do.

He lies down on the ground, face up. I get in position over him. He seems significantly less anxious than me. Maybe it’s the fact that his body has grown too weak to care. Maybe it’s just that he has accepted his fate better than I have. In any case, his calm demeanor only causes my anxiety to heighten.

He glances over at the door for the third time in the last few minutes. He catches me noticing this.

“Do you remember the plan?” he asks.

I nod again, not wanting to speak. I have nothing left to say.

“Is the door unlocked?” he asks weakly. I nod again in the affirmative. I’m not sure if he thinks I’m stupid and forgetful, or if he just wants to be extra sure that everything is going to go right. I decide to give him a little bit of leeway and assume it’s the latter. After all, this is going to require a certain level of precision to ensure that everything goes according to plan. There is no room for error in what we are about to do.

It’s sad, in a way. This will be the last time I ever interact with this person with whom I have shared my life. But looking down, I realize that this shell of a man is not the person that I married five years ago. I have no love left for this person.

“Ready?” I ask. This time he is the one to nod silently. His eyes take one last glance at the front door.

I place the fuzzy cotton blanket over his face. It’s the same blanket that his mom had gotten us as a wedding present. Remarried to a successful investment banker when Erick was only a teenager, she had no shortage of money. Yet her wedding gift to us was a stupid blanket. She never liked me, and this gift to us on our wedding day only solidified that fact. It’s only fitting that this is now the item that will cause his demise.

The blanket is fairly thick and heavy, but Erick is still able to breathe through it. I see a small circle of blanket go up and down as he takes shallow breaths through the thick material.

I pick up the pillow from the couch next to us, my shaky legs still straddling his torso. The pillow was another wedding gift from some obscure relative of Erick’s. It reads “Love is All You Need” in some sort of stupid calligraphy writing. Love is all you need? What a joke.

I grit my teeth and flip the pillow upside down so that I can’t see the words anymore. I steady my breathing with a few deep breaths… in… out… in… out… Then I take the pillow and push it down onto the spot where his mouth is. I feel his body tense as the pillow cuts off the oxygen.

At first, his body is stiff but otherwise calm. He doesn’t struggle as his body apparently accepts his fate.

But a minute later he starts to tense up. He tries to turn his head side to side but struggles to do it underneath the weight of the blanket and pillow. His legs start to kick and his hands grab my arms. His grip is weak, but he manages to dig his nails into my arms. I wince at the pain and try to shake him off. His body only gets more angry as he starts bucking his back to try to shake me off. I guess this is a normal reaction to being suffocated, although we had agreed to this.

I push down harder, holding my breath. It is taking every ounce of strength I have to hold the pillow over his mouth. I can feel my heart pounding in my chest, and it echoes into my skull. But it’s a welcome sound as it barely blocks out the moans emitting from my husband’s mouth.

He is putting up much more of a struggle than I expected, to the point where I wonder if he changed his mind. But I haven’t changed mine. I muster up all my remaining strength and push down even harder.

It feels like several minutes of this go by as I give it everything I have to fight him from getting up. After what feels like an eternity, he finally goes limp, and I know the deed is done. I wait an extra minute just in case, hands trembling, and then get up from the ground. My arms are sore from using all my muscles. He wasn’t supposed to be this strong at this point.

I leave the pillow and blanket over his face. No need to look into his dead eyes before I have to. I decide that it can be moved right before the police arrive, and placed back onto the couch as if it had sat there the whole time as merely a witness. No one needs to know that he took his last breath into this blanket and pillow.

One hour. I’m supposed to wait one hour before calling the police. That’s what we agreed on. We agreed on that amount of time because it wasn’t too long to be suspicious, but it also was too long for any hope of resuscitation.

I glance at the clock. It’s 7:05 p.m. I’ll have to keep myself busy until 8:05 p.m. I walk down the hallway and into the master bathroom where I splash cold water on my face. I look at myself in the mirror. I have gotten so used to seeing bruises on my face over the last few years that the absence of any now is almost surprising. It’s not for lack of trying. The first time Erick came back from a doctor appointment six months ago I had forgotten that he requested dinner to be prepared. That lapse in memory earned me double black eyes. But luckily, Erick had been too weak over the last few months to do anything other than yell and call me names.

I walk back into the living room, careful to avoid looking at the blanketed lump on the ground. I still have 55 minutes left before I can call, but I don’t want to be here in this silence counting the minutes while listening to my own head.

I decide to go for a drive. That was part of the original plan that Erick and I devised anyways, so that I would just say that I came home and found him like this.

I enter the garage and get in my Mercedes. I take a deep breath and sit for a minute, then set the alarm on my phone to go off in 50 minutes. I then pull onto the street and make a long lap around the neighborhood, going up and down random streets. It has to be believable in case they check to see if my car was gone. When I’m sure that the engine is nice and warm, and that a suitable time has passed, I slowly make my way back home and pull into the driveway. I leave the engine running for a few more minutes as I sit motionlessly in the driver seat.

I close the garage and walk into the house, leaving the door unlocked. Erick’s body is still motionless on the ground. Not that I expected anything differently.

Just as I pull the phone out of my pocket to check the time, the timer goes off, signifying that I have now waited the appropriate amount of time.

I check myself in the mirror by the entryway. There are a few scratches on my upper arm where Erick grabbed me. I pull a sweater out of the closet and pull it over my body. I push the thermostat next to the door to turn the air on, making it more believable for me to be wearing a sweater in July.

It’s time for the next step. I take a deep breath in and hold the phone up to my face. And then I start screaming. I start screaming just like we planned it and practiced it. Within 30 seconds I’ve worked myself into a complete frenzy with tears and hyperventilating. I decide that this is believable, and I enter 9-1-1 into the phone and hit the green call button.

A woman’s voice comes on over the phone. “Nine one one, what is the nature of your emergency?”

“My husband is dead! My husband is dead!” I scream over and over into the phone. “Please send help!”

The woman’s voice becomes more serious and I can hear clicking noises as she undoubtedly types what I’m saying. “What is the address of your location, ma’am?”

“We’re at our house! It’s 2450 Derry Drive. I think he’s dead!”

“Okay, I have police and EMS on the way to you right now. Tell me exactly what happened.” The clicking noises continue as she speed-types notes.

“I don’t know what happened! I just got home and found my husband lying on the ground! I think he’s dead!” I sob uncontrollably, gasping for air between each phrase. I am quite impressed with this performance. This might be better than how we practiced it.

“Is he breathing?” The woman asks.

“I… I… I don’t think so!”

“Okay, I’ll tell you how to start CPR. Do exactly as I say.”

“Okay,” I sob into the phone.

“Make sure he’s lying flat on his back on an even surface. If there’s anything under him, move it out of the way. Place the phone onto the ground but keep it on speaker so that you can still hear me.”

“Okay,” I say again, gasping for air between sobs. I do as she says and put the phone onto the ground after clicking the speaker button.

I pull the blanket and pillow from his face and toss them quickly onto the couch as if they had been there the whole time. Erick’s face is white and his body is completely motionless, but he otherwise looks like a sleeping Erick. The sight is not nearly as bad as I was thinking it would be.

“Now you’re going to place one hand on top of the other and place them in the middle of his chest between the nipples. Then you’re going to push down hard and fast.”

I place my hands on top of each other as she instructed. I begin pushing down repeatedly on his chest. I do it because I have to make it look like I tried, but I know with certainty that Erick is not coming back. That’s why we agreed that I would wait an hour before calling for help.

I continue sobbing and pushing on Erick’s chest, making sure to work myself into a sufficient frenzy so that I’ll look believable when the paramedics get here. I can actually feel the sweat dripping down my back after nearly a minute of chest compressions, and silently wonder if paramedics are in strikingly good shape to be able to do this.

“Help is just a couple minutes away. Keep doing chest compressions until they get there, and stay on the phone with me until they arrive. Is your front door unlocked?”

“Yes, it’s unlocked,” I say between breaths.

“Okay, ma’am. You’re doing a great job. Keep doing that until help arrives.”

I continue pushing on his chest for what feels like an eternity, but realistically is probably only about four minutes. I continue compressions until I see the red lights of an ambulance through the window, and only release the grip on my husband’s chest when the paramedics burst through the front door to take over.

I play my part of the concerned wife who has just found her husband unresponsive on the ground. I cry and hyperventilate while the medics try to revive him. Little do they know that it’s not going to help anything. He is dead, and nothing they do will change that.

It was the perfect murder, and I am getting away with it.

CHAPTER TWO

ONE HOUR AFTER ERICK’S DEATH

Julie

It only took the paramedics a few minutes to realize what I already knew before they arrived - that Erick is very dead and that no amount of CPR could change that.

Now I’m sitting in the kitchen with two officers from the Springville Valley Police Department. The paramedics are long gone at this point, and we are talking in the kitchen while we wait for the coroner’s office to come pick up Erick’s body.

I learned that when things are slow on any given night, the police might respond to calls about medical issues. It just happened that Officer Sorento and Officer Carwile were patrolling the neighborhood when the call came in, and they arrived almost simultaneously with the paramedics. Officer Sorento is a tall and ethnically ambiguous man with an unruly mustache and a serious face. Officer Carwile seems a little younger and newer, with an equally unruly mustache framing his baby face. He looks like he just got a buzz cut of his light brown hair. I know I should be thinking about Erick, but really I’m just stuck wondering why so many cops have dumb mustaches.

“We are very sorry for your loss,” says Officer Sorento, leading the conversation. “This must be very difficult for you, but we just have a few questions. You can take a break anytime you want. Just let us know how you’re doing as we go along. Okay?”

“Okay,” I sniffle. A box of tissues sits on the table in front of me. I don’t even know if they brought this along with them or if they got it from somewhere in my house. I don’t recognize it, which means they must have brought it in with them.

“So you just came home and found him on the ground?” Officer Sorento asks, flipping open a small black notebook. He pulls a black pen from his jacket pocket and clicks it on, then poises his hand over the notebook, waiting for my answer.

“Yes, I came home and he was just lying there! I rushed over to him but it was too late.” I increase the level of my sobs.

“The medics said he looked fairly weak. Was he sick?”

I nod and sniff, letting a liquidy booger cascade from my nose before reaching up to wipe it off. “Cancer had taken control of his body, but we thought we’d have more time!” I sob into a wad of tissues balled up into my hands.

“How long ago was he diagnosed with cancer?” Asks Officer Carwile, jumping into the conversation.

“About a year ago,” I sniffle. “They told us he’d get weaker and weaker until his organs eventually shut down. But it got really bad in the last few months.”

“He wasn’t set up on hospice care or anything like that? We don’t have record that end-of-life care had been requested.” Officer Sorento frowns. Obviously they had had someone look into Erick’s life and relay the information to the officers.

I sniff again for good measure, and then begin to recite the story we concocted. “Erick was too proud for that. He said he wanted to die at home with me. He wasn’t interested in spending his remaining time going to doctor appointments and taking medication and counting down the minutes. He wanted to live while he was dying. I just didn’t think it would be so… sudden.”

“How long have you two been married?” Asks Officer Sorento.

“Today would have been our five-year wedding anniversary,” I say. I can feel another round of tears come up inside me, and this time I wonder if they are real or not. But if they are real, they are for the idea of marriage and not for the idea of being married to Erick specifically.

The officers look at each other uncomfortably. “We’re sorry to hear that,” Officer Carwile says. He certainly seems like the more empathetic one of the two men. Maybe that’s why he was paired with Officer Sorento who currently looks indifferent to the whole thing; as if this is just another day at work for him.

“That’s certainly poor timing,” Officer Sorento adds. If this was a real situation, I would probably have been mad about that comment. But instead I brush it off.

As I sit there debating whether to respond anything back to that comment, we hear a knock at the door.

“That must be the coroner,” Officer Carwile says. “I’ll get it.” He pops out of the chair and heads to the front door. Officer Sorento and I get up after him and follow him into the entryway.

When the door opens, we are all greeted by a man and woman in matching black outfits that look kind of like scrubs but thicker. The woman holds a long board standing up in front of her body, slightly taller than her already tall frame. I gather that this is the contraption they are going to put Erick’s body onto to take him out to their vehicle and drive him away in.

“Coroner’s Office,” the man says, holding up a badge. As if we weren’t going to believe that he was there to pick up a dead body. No need for credentials in a situation like this.

“Right this way,” Officer Carwile says, moving aside to let the two in. They both stare at me awkwardly as they walk by. I realize that my hair and makeup must be a mess from all the crying and blowing my nose. I want to look in the hall mirror and fix my hair and makeup, but I decide that this would look strange at this moment so I decide against it. They will just have to see me however I am. They’ve probably seen worse.

I watch intently as they make their way over to Erick’s body. The two are silent as they unwrap a big white bag, and start placing each individual limb in the bag, careful to lift his torso together and place it into the body bag. They zip it up to Erick’s neck but leave the top open with his face visible.

The woman places the board she was holding onto the ground, and I watch quietly as they lift Erick’s body onto the board. The man reaches his hands underneath the contraption and pulls it up until it’s about hip height. The woman notices me staring at Erick’s lifeless body and gives me a look that implies that she’s sorry for me.

“Do you want to say goodbye to him?” she asks, hand paused on the zipper.

I don’t really want to say goodbye to him. I kind of just want her to zip up the bag and go. But if I’m going to play the part of the grieving widow then I really need to play the part of the grieving widow.

“Oh, um… sure,” I say. The eyes of Officer Sorento and Officer Carwile are fixated on me, and I try to ignore them.

I step over to the body bag and peer inside. Erick looks like Erick. It just looks like he’s sleeping. But I know that his eyes aren’t going to open again.

I feel the eyes of both coroners on my face now, so all four people are staring at me at this point. It’s like they’re expecting me to do something. Instinctively, I bend my face down and push my lips out. My lips quiver as they make contact with Erick’s cold and clammy skin. I close my eyes as I hold my lips on his skin for ten seconds, counting the seconds one at a time so that I don’t have to focus on his dead skin on my mouth. When I am confident that a sufficient amount of time has passed to look like a grieving widow, I lift my head and open my eyes. A surprise tear rolls down my cheek, and I am unsure whether it is from actual sadness, or if I’m just a really great actress.

I pull back from Erick’s body and allow the two to carry him towards the door. The police officers and I watch silently. I can hear nothing except the ticking of our clock sitting atop the mantlepiece.

Just before they exit, the man stops and turns. He hands me a card, and I look at it confused. Now certainly seems like a weird time to give out a business card. But when I look at it a second time, I realize that he’s giving me a card to the nearby funeral home, most likely so that I can have their information.

“This is where his body will be. Just call the office number tomorrow and they can help you make all the arrangements for a service, and they will have all the information that you need.”

“Thank you,” I say, placing the card gingerly into my pocket. I’ll have to remember not to put these pants in the washing machine with the card in them.

The coroners take Erick’s body and leave. I close the door behind them, turning back to the officers. I don’t know what to say, so I’m grateful when they break the awkward silence.

“Is there anyone who we can call for you? Or someone who can come stay with you tonight?” Officer Carwile asks. His soft eyes look at me with sympathy. He places his hand on my shoulder, and I resist the urge to flinch.

“Well… is there any way that you can notify his mom? I mean, I don’t even know what to tell her. I can’t even talk right now!” I start crying and pretend to hyperventilate again. I figure they will do whatever I want if I work myself up into enough of a frenzy.

“Sure, just give us the number and we will take care of it, no problem,” Officer Sorento says quickly, although his facial expression tells me that he very much thinks it’s a problem and that he very much does not want to take care of it.

“Thank you,” I say. “Once you call her then she will take care of the rest,” I sniff and take a deep breath to explain more. “He wasn’t close with his mom. She didn’t even know about his diagnosis. But she’s going to take it hard.”

“We can offer her some grief resources to help,” Officer Sorento nods knowingly, as if he’s been in this situation a hundred times before.

“And you,” Officer Carwile chimes in. “If you need anything, please don’t hesitate to reach out to us. That’s what we’re here for.”

“Thank you, officers,” I wipe the tears from my cheek. I don’t know how much longer I can keep up the fake tears. I’m starting to feel dehydrated. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’d like to be alone at this time.”

“Of course. Have a good night, ma’am,” Officer Carwile nods his head at me, and both officers give me a small condolence smile. ‘Have a good night’ seems like a weird thing to say under the circumstances, but maybe it was just habit for him.

“Good night,” I say, ushering them out and closing the door behind them.

I turn around and face the empty living room. I look at the spot where Erick laid just moments ago. I look at all the spots in the room where various memories happened. Mostly bad ones. I think about all of the Hell this man has put me through for the last five years. And I smile.

I make my way slowly upstairs, being sure to take in all the quietness of the house. I stop by the bar to pour myself a glass of wine, which I down all at once. When I get to the master bedroom, I don’t bother with washing my face or brushing my teeth; I simply kick off my shoes, throw on some sweatpants, and crawl under the sheets. I curl up in the empty bed. I guess I can sleep in the middle now.

Everything went exactly according to plan. Erick got to die on his own terms, and I got to be rid of the person who caused me nothing but sadness for the last five years of my life. It worked for both of us, and everything is fine because we agreed to do it this way. It was truly the perfect murder because no one is going to know that it’s a murder. I am finally free!

CHAPTER THREE

FIVE YEARS PRIOR

Julie

Today is our wedding day. The day that every little girl dreams about when she’s growing up. This is it- It’s finally here!

I stare at myself in the mirror, turning side to side, regretting having a second piece of toast for breakfast. My stomach pokes out a tiny bit, making my 105 pounds look more like 115. I frown and try to suck it in. I just won’t eat until the ceremony and then it should be fine.

Erick insisted on seeing me in my dress this morning. He wants to make sure I look perfect for our guests, and I think he also wants to make sure he approves of how I look. You wouldn’t want to disappoint me or our guests, he had said.

My dress is a floor-length mermaid-style dress with long lace sleeves. It hugs my body in all the right places, with a v-neck that plunges down below my B-cup boobs. I knew it was exactly what I wanted when I tried it on.

There is a quick and loud knock at the door, and I instantly recognize it as Erick’s knock. I am standing alone in the bridal suite of our wedding venue, Butterfly Ranch. Erick had told me that if he couldn’t marry a country girl then he at least wanted to get married in a country setting. We both loved the barn where the reception would take place, and happily put down the deposit.

“Come in!” I say, putting on a proud smile and taking one last glance at myself in the mirror.

I turn around as he walks in the door. His face is expressionless as he looks me up and down silently. Eventually his eyes make their way from the ground up to my face as he takes in the whole dress.

“What do you think?” I ask him, holding my breath as I wait for his approval.

He frowns, looking down at my stomach. “What did you eat this morning? You look like you’re four months pregnant.”

I clutch my stomach self-consciously. “I just had some toast,” I say defensively.

He frowns deeper, a look of disproval washing across his face. “You know that carbs make you bloat, yet you still chose to eat toast on the same morning that you’re getting into a tight dress?” The word toast comes out of his mouth like it’s the most disgusting thing he could possibly imagine me eating.

“Well, I didn’t want to be hungry and pass out, so I thought it would be filling…” The excuse sounds dumb coming out of my mouth. This is all my fault. I should have known that toast would make me look bloaty, and I should have chosen something else for breakfast or just not eaten. I won’t tell Erick that it was his mom, Linda, who had suggested that I eat toast for breakfast and had even helped me make it at the continental breakfast offered by the hotel that morning.

“Just don’t eat again until the ceremony is over,” Erick says, crossing his arms across his chest. “Maybe you should put your sweatpants on and run around the block a couple times and then do some sit-ups. Just don’t be late for your hair and makeup appointment. The makeup lady is going to have her work cut out for her with those bags under your eyes. Did you sleep at all last night?”

“I… I… I was just excited, that’s all. I think it’s normal to be a little anxious the night before the wedding…”

“I told you to get a good night’s sleep!” he exclaims, rubbing his eyes with the palms of his hands. I also don’t tell Erick that it was his mom who kept me up half the night drunkenly telling me stories of her childhood. By the time I finally got her to be quiet and escorted her back to her own room, it was well past midnight.

Erick had insisted that we not see each other the night before the wedding because he said it was “tradition” and that it made that moment at the end of the aisle more special. He had paid for me to stay in a hotel, the same one as his family members who had come into town for the wedding. The fact that he didn’t want us to see each other the night before the wedding seemed silly in hindsight, considering that he had insisted on coming to see me in my dress this morning anyways. But the fact that he wanted to uphold tradition and pay for me to stay in a nice hotel room was sweet. He even sprung for the jacuzzi tub so that I could have a relaxing night, which of course I did not get to use since I went to bed so late, but it was a nice thought.

“I’m sorry, Babe,” he sighs, “I’m just so stressed out! I want this whole day to be perfect. You deserve to have everything you ever wanted.” He crosses the room and takes my hands. He leans forward, careful to avoid stepping on the dress, and plants a gentle kiss on my lips. I melt at the very touch of his lips on mine.

“I know you just want everything to be perfect,” I say, my tensions easing.

“I really do! I know you’ll feel so much better looking at the pictures of our big day if you look your absolute best, and I want you to have that.”

I smile, happy that he just wants the best for me. “I promise I will be ready to go in time for the ceremony!”

“I’m sure you will,” he says, kissing me once more. “I’ll check in with you again before the ceremony!” He winks and leaves, closing the door loudly behind him.

I look in the mirror again and frown. I know that I have some work to do. I’ll have to do some sit-ups and drink a lot of water, and make sure that the makeup artist does something about those bags under my eyes. Erick is right; I will feel better if I look better. He just wants the best for me.

By the time the ceremony rolls around, my hair and makeup are complete, and my stomach has gone down to almost its normal flatness. I take a deep breath and admire my stomach in the mirror. It looks way better than it did this morning. I’m a little lightheaded from having nothing but water for the last few hours, but it’s worth it to get my stomach to cooperate.

Erick walks in the door for his second viewing of me. I am supposed to walk down the aisle in a few minutes and Erick is going to let me know if he approves now that everything is all done. I really hope he approves, because I do not have a backup plan if he doesn’t. I don’t want to ruin the wedding!

“Is this better?” I ask, holding my breath nervously. I can hear my heart beating loudly in my ears as I wait for his answer.

He looks me up and down again, and then takes a few steps closer. He starts walking a slow circle around me, looking at each angle of my body. I freeze in place as he does this, not wanting to move an inch.

“You look so hot!” he finally says. My shoulders instantly relax, and I realize that a tear is running down my warm cheek, with multiple others threatening to follow.

“I’m so glad you like it!” I say. “I was so nervous after this morning. I thought you hated the way I looked on our big day and I didn’t want to ruin it or have you regret marrying me or something!”

He takes a deep breath in and sighs. “I’m sorry for earlier baby, you look beautiful,” he grins that big handsome smile at me. The smile that I fell in love with. “I’m just feeling really anxious about the big day and I want everything to be perfect. And I know you will feel better if you look good in our pictures, so that’s why it was so important to me that you look good today. I just want you to be happy with how you look.”

I breathe a sigh of relief. Erick loves me so much and cares about me so much that he wanted to make sure I feel great about myself on our big day. And it sounds like he thinks I look amazing, just in time for the ceremony.

The walk down the aisle is a complete blur. I think there are dozens of people there, but the only thing I can see at the end of the aisle is Erick’s smiling face. Before I know it, I’m up standing next to Erick, holding his clammy hands while a priest recites bible verses about our marriage as if we had ever gone to a church before.

After more talking and praying, we recite our vows to each other. They are short and sweet, and we rehearsed those beforehand as well. Erick was anxious about reading our vows in front of other people and had insisted that we prepare them in advance so that he’d know exactly what I was going to say. I know he just wants everything to be perfect.

Eventually the priest pronounces us husband and wife, and tells Erick that he can kiss me. I lean in obediently for the kiss, which is warm and wet, and then I pull back. I look across at my new husband and smile. He grins back.

I hope that we are going to live happily ever after. But there is a pit in my stomach that I know is unrelated to the lack of food in it. The last thought I have as we walk back down the aisle hand in hand, guests clapping and roaring, is whether I am making a mistake or not.

CHAPTER FOUR

FIVE YEARS PRIOR

Erick

Today is our wedding day. I think I’m making a terrible mistake. Should I be getting married this young? Is she really the person who I’m supposed to spend forever with? Do I have better options out there?

I’m a decent-looking guy at five feet and eleven inches (yes, being one inch shy of six feet drives me crazy, but five feet eleven is still respectable). I am lucky to still have all my hair. I never got to know my dad after he bounced from my life when I was five years old, but from my understanding, he had a full head of hair too which I must have inherited. I could probably get any girl I want with little to no effort.

Julie is freakishly tall for a woman at five feet and nine inches tall. She refuses to wear flats when we go out, insisting that heels make her feel sexier. But it’s hard for me to see her as sexy when she’s the same height as me or taller! I can’t even count the number of times she has tried to emasculate me by wearing heels when we go out.

My mom doesn’t really approve of the relationship, but she also won’t outright tell me that she doesn’t like Julie. It’s more of a feeling that I get. For example, Mom told me this morning that she had a conversation with Julie last night and that Julie was drunkenly rambling about the future and blah blah blah. It sounded a little bit desperate, and my mom seemed to stick up her nose at the thought of Julie spilling her guts like that. It comes across weak, in my opinion.

But anyways, when Mom came to tell me that I needed to go look at Julie in her dress, I could tell on her face that something was wrong. My mom has the expectation that our wedding will go perfectly, and I know that that includes having my bride walk down the aisle looking great. My mom knows that I deserve that.

I am guided to the door of the bridal dressing room by my mother. She silently indicates for me to go in. I can feel my hands getting clammy, as they always do when I’m nervous. I put one shaking hand onto the door handle. It creaks as I push it open.

I walk in and rest my eyes on the woman in front of me. I breathe in and out as I take in the view, looking her up and down. Then I frown. I thought that if I saw Julie in her wedding dress it would reassure me that I’m making the right decision. But standing here in this room she just looks so… bland. Her dress is just so… white. I thought it was bad luck to wear a white white dress on your wedding day if you weren’t a virgin, and Julie certainly isn’t a virgin. I also thought I had dropped enough hints that I was looking forward to seeing her in a ballgown wedding dress with lace and jewels and exciting details. But what she’s wearing is a skin-tight white dress with absolutely nothing on it. It’s just so boring, like her personality.

Today is no different from the other times she has tried to emasculate me with her height, as she stands in front of me with three-inch heels, practically towering over me. I know that she likes to look taller but this is supposed to be our wedding and she’s not thinking about me at all. She also has her brown hair pulled back in an updo with a curled strand on each side cascading down the sides of her face, even though I had specifically told her that I wanted her hair to be down for our wedding. It also looks like she had too many carbs for breakfast as her stomach pokes out of her dress. It’s as if she’s purposefully trying to make herself look bad! I can’t believe how selfish she is acting today of all days!

But I can’t back out of this wedding. Even though my mom doesn’t exactly love her, she has threatened to disinherit me if I don’t marry Julie. You see, Julie’s dad was wealthy after he created some type of patent a couple decades ago, and then he passed away suddenly. Most of his money went into some sort of trust fund that she’s set to receive when she turns thirty. I don’t know exactly how much is in it and I don’t know if Julie even knows how much is in it, but it sounds like it’s going to be life-changing money. I don’t know how they decided on the age of thirty, but I’m assuming it’s because that’s when they assumed she’d be mature enough to handle it. I’m not sure that I’d consider Julie mature right now, but maybe in a few years when she gets the money. She’s twenty-five now, so I only have to hold out another five years or so. When she turns thirty, I’ll only be thirty-five, so there’s plenty of time for me to remarry after that. I just have to put up with her long enough to get the benefit of that fortune. I can handle that.

Don’t get me wrong, there are things I like about Julie. She is fire in bed. She can do things to me and make me feel things that no other woman has been able to make me feel. At least she has that going for her. She also wants kids, just like I do, and we have committed to getting started on that right away. I’m too great not to have a bunch of little me’s running around! We may have to pace ourselves with the children though if Julie can’t handle dropping the baby weight each time. Her mother is thin despite having four kids, so hopefully Julie will take after her. Julie is also a great cook and I’ll have to watch my own waistline now that we will be living together every day.

Mom insisted that we not move in together until we were officially married, even though she’s been spending the night at my apartment five times per week for the last two years anyways. We agreed that for now I will continue working my job as a data analyst for a local technology company, and she will continue working as a Kindergarten teacher. We will plan our children around her Summer breaks so that she can still work during the school year and take care of the kids during the Summer. Then when she inherits her fortune, neither one of us will need to work anymore and we can just spend all our time and money on the kids. I can initiate the divorce proceedings and take my portion of our money, and we can split time with the kids. I’ll be young enough to move on with someone better. It will all be perfect. But in order to make it there, we have to make our way down the aisle first.

I look at Julie on the morning of our wedding and tell her honestly how she looks in the dress. She frowns at first, but I think she appreciates the honest feedback. She wants to look good at her own wedding too after all. I know she’d want me to be honest instead of holding it back.

I can tell that I’m right because later in the day I see Julie again, and she looks much better. I feel relieved for the first time all day. Finally she got it together.

And as she walks down the aisle to me, I smile as I see dollar signs floating above her head. I can put up with this for another few years. That’s all I need to get through. Our ceremony goes quickly as Julie and I recite our pre-rehearsed vows that I made sure to approve ahead of time.

But as I kiss my new bride and look back at her, I can’t help wondering if I’ve made a terrible mistake in marrying Julie. Is this going to end badly?

CHAPTER FIVE

PRESENT DAY

Julie

I wake up the morning after Erick’s death with an overwhelming sense of calm after getting the best night of sleep that I’ve had in a long time. The house is quiet and if I strain my ears I can even hear birds chirping outside. This will be the first full day without Erick. The first peaceful morning I’ve had in a long time.

I then hear the familiar sound of my stomach grumbling. I realize that in all the commotion of the night before, I never ate dinner! I trudge downstairs and lazily open the fridge. There is an empty carton of milk sitting right in the middle of the fridge, right where Erick left it yesterday. I frown and grab it, then toss it into the trash. I guess I won’t have to worry about that type of thing anymore.

It will be nice to live alone! I’ve never really lived alone. I went right from my mom’s house to living in college dorms, and that’s where I met Erick. He was working on his master’s degree majoring in technology and I was working on my bachelor’s degree and eventually my teaching credential. We didn’t officially “move in” together, but I was staying at Erick’s place most nights per week starting after graduation, and staying at my mom’s house the other nights. Erick’s mom had insisted that we not live together before marriage because she’s a “traditionalist,” yet she apparently had no problem with me basically living there most nights anyways. But I learned a long time ago to just go with whatever Linda says to avoid the inevitable argument that comes if I don’t. If I can make her happy on a technicality, I’ll take it.

I leave my dishes next to the sink without making any effort to clean them. There’s no point in washing them immediately now that no one is here to criticize me for my housekeeping skills. Even though I was the one who did all the cooking, Erick always made me clean the dishes, too. He said if I was the one to get them dirty then I needed to be the one to clean them. One time I left a dish to soak in the sink overnight and Erick spent the next morning screaming at me about how disgusting it was. I learned not to do that again.

But now, nothing is stopping me from doing whatever I want. I am free for the first time in a long time.

I don’t even know what to do with myself. I walk around the house trying to figure out the first step in my new widow lifestyle. Luckily I don’t have to notify anybody about Erick’s death because the police took care of that. Once they told Erick’s mom, word probably spread to everyone that she has ever met. Anything she could do to make people feel bad for her, she would do.

I wonder how that conversation with his mom went. I do feel bad that she lost her son, but ultimately it was for the better. She hadn’t seen him in months, anyways. Erick didn’t want his mom to know about the cancer and how weak he was getting, so we never told her. We made excuses to avoid seeing her. But now I guess she will know. I’m sure she will be mad at me for not telling her, but I can worry about that later. I won’t have any reason to see that old bat after the funeral anyways.

I haven’t told my own mom yet or any of my friends. Not that I have many friends left anyways. Erick never let me hang out with other men because obviously that’s not acceptable in a marriage, and I had to make continued excuses for not going out with my female friends. Eventually they just stopped inviting me. Friends turned into acquaintances, and then morphed into strangers. I don’t even know if any of the three bridesmaids that I had at our wedding would care about my life anymore.

My mom and I used to be close, but Erick also ruined that relationship by making it difficult for me to go visit her. Once we were married, he insisted that we had to go visit together and wouldn’t let me go by myself. But when it came time to book the plane tickets, Erick would tell me that he couldn’t get the time off work or he couldn’t miss an important meeting. Eventually, she became like a stranger to me too, resorting to calling me on the phone maybe once a month. Still, I need to tell her about Erick and probably soon. I don’t think Erick’s mom will have called her, so it will be on me now to call my mom and let her know that my husband is dead. I haven’t recovered from my acting experience the night before, so I’ll need a little time to prepare myself for those calls. No one knew the extent of Erick’s abuse towards me, and he was always good at making himself look good in front of my friends and family.

For now I have taken the home phone off the hook and turned off my cell phone so that no one can reach me. I’ll tell people on my own time. Right now I’m enjoying the peace of finally having him gone. Erick’s cancer was the worst thing that ever happened to him, but it has turned out to be the best thing that could have happened to me. As soon as his funeral is over, I can go on and live happily ever after.

Just as I contemplate whether I need a second cup of coffee, the doorbell rings. I frown, unsure who it could be. No one really comes to the door unannounced these days. Although they could be announced for all I know; I’ve had my phone off all night.

I cautiously walk to the door and stare through the peephole. The familiar sight of a police badge stairs back at me. I feel my heart rate quicken as I unlock the door and open it.

Officer Sorento and Officer Carwile stand in the doorway. They look like they’ve been up all night. Officer Sorento, who is clearly the older of the two, has dark bags under his eyes. Officer Carwile looks a little more peppy but still somber.

I start to smile at my visitors, then realize that this is not a natural reaction for a widow the morning after her husband just dropped dead on the living room floor. I paint a look of sorrow and despair across my face instead. If I had known they were coming, I would have tried to work myself into a nice crying session so that my eyes would be puffy and red prior to opening the door. Oh well, too late now.

“Oh… hello, officers,” I say. “What can I do for you today?”

“May we come in?” Officer Sorento asks, taking a tentative step across the threshold of my door frame. I get the impression that he’s doing this in order to let me know that he does not consider that question to be a question and they are coming in no matter what.

“Of course,” I say, backing up to allow them both in. I’m not sure what he would have done if I hadn’t moved aside, but I’m not going to find out.

Officer Sorento comes all the way across the threshold, followed by his partner. I make eye contact with Officer Carwile and he just nods at me as he comes in. They both head towards the kitchen and sit themselves down at my kitchen table without asking. I instinctively take a seat and look across the table, staring back and forth between the two of them.

“We just had a few more questions for you, if that’s okay, ma’am,” Officer Carwile says.

“You can call me Julie,” I say pointedly. I hate being called ma’am.

“Of course. We just have a few more questions for you, Julie.”

I can’t tell if they are playing the whole good cop bad cop ruse, but it definitely seems like Officer Carwile is playing the part of good cop. At least he has smiled at me, whereas Officer Sorento seems progressively more annoyed with me as time goes on.

“Sure. What questions do you have?” I ask. I cross my arms across my body and lean back in the chair.

“Julie… did you and Erick have plans for your five-year wedding anniversary?” Officer Carwile asks. The question takes me by surprise. I was not expecting that.

“……..what?” I finally manage to ask.

“Plans,” he repeats. “Did you and Erick have plans for your wedding anniversary last night?” He accentuates the word plans as if I’m a foreign student and he’s the teacher teaching me a new word.

I stare at him, confused. “Plans? No?” I manage to say, still puzzled by the question.

“Why not?” he asks, cocking his head to the side.

“What do you mean why not?” My heart rate quickens. I have no idea what he’s talking about but his expression is concerning to me. He’s looking at me with some sort of ‘gotcha’ face.

“I mean, a wedding anniversary is special. Especially a number like five years. It should be cause for celebration. I would expect a happily married couple would at least go out to dinner or something to celebrate their five-year wedding anniversary.”

“Well, we have busy lives. It was a Tuesday. We don’t really believe in doing something special for holidays or observing anniversaries because every day was special to us.”

The words feel dumb coming out of my mouth. We thought that we thought of everything but of course we didn’t think that it would look weird not to celebrate our anniversary. And I don’t like the way Officer Sorento has been silently staring at me, hanging on each word that I say. I didn’t think I would be nervous but he’s making me nervous.

“It’s just something we were wondering about, that’s all,” Officer Carwile says nonchalantly. He shrugs.

“You guys wonder about some strange things,” I say pointedly.

“Did you take out an additional life insurance policy on Erick six months ago?” Officer Carwile says. The sudden change in topic causes another wave of confusion to flow through me.

“Yes?” I say, confused. That part isn’t a secret so I don’t understand why they are asking. It’s not a crime to take out a life insurance policy on a sick spouse. I would have been dumb not to do it!”

“And did you list yourself as the sole beneficiary of that life insurance policy?”

“Yes?” I say again. “I was his wife so obviously I would be the logical choice for a beneficiary,” I explain to them, although they should probably know that already.

“And you don’t think the timing of that is a little odd?” Officer Sorento asks, finally chiming in to the conversation.

I furrow my eyebrows at them. “He was dying of cancer. It would be irresponsible for me to not think about my future. Why wouldn’t I take out an additional life insurance policy? The premium was high and it was really difficult to get them to add it on, but you can see that it was worth it. He didn’t end up living beyond another six months.”

“When exactly did Erick get his cancer diagnosis?” Officer Sorento asks, taking a small notepad from his breast pocket and flipping it open. He pulls a pen from his pants pocket and clicks it on, poising it over the pad of paper.

“It was about a year ago that we first got the diagnosis,” I begin to recite our pre-rehearsed story, “but we didn’t know at first how bad it was. I think that’s why we qualified for the policy.”

“Which doctor diagnosed him?” Officer Carwile asks as Officer Sorento scribbles on the pad of paper.

“I’m not sure exactly. I can’t remember the name of the doctor.”

“Fair enough. Can you tell me where the doctor’s office is located? Then we can at least try to look it up from there.”

“I don’t know that, either. I never went to any of his doctor appointments or treatments.”

Officer Sorento raises an eyebrow. “You never went to any of your husband’s doctor appointments or cancer treatments?”

I don’t like the way he is saying that.

“No, he didn’t want me to go with,” I say defensively, a hint of exasperation filling my voice. “He wanted to go alone. He didn’t want anyone to see him vulnerable. It was a point of pride for him. Besides, I supported him at home. So what if he went to the doctor by himself a few hours per week? All the other hours were spent with me supporting him from home.”

“Got it,” Officer Carwile nods, clearly trying to get me to stop talking defensively so that things don’t escalate any more. “Well, we’d like to get a little bit more medical information for Erick. Do you have any paperwork from any of his appointments? That might show us a name or contact information for one of his doctors.”

I frown. “Paperwork? No, I don’t think he ever brought home any paperwork.”

“Well, maybe it would show on his bank account statements if he charged his card for a co-pay or something?” Officer Carwile suggests.

“We had separate bank accounts,” I explain. “He didn’t have access to my accounts and I didn’t have access to his accounts, and we just paid one half of the bills each month by transferring money to each other.”

I choose not to tell them the truth – that Erick would never let me have access to his accounts. I choose not to tell them that he paid me an allowance and controlled what I spent in any given day. I choose not to tell them about the time that I happened to glance at Erick’s statement while he was logged in on the computer, and he got so mad he slammed my head into the wall. They don’t need to know about any of that. They don’t need to have a reason to accuse me of killing my husband on purpose.

“So, you knew he was going to die of cancer at some point in the near future, enough to take out an additional life insurance policy to protect yourself financially, yet you didn’t make any arrangements regarding his bank accounts?” Officer Sorento asks, an obvious implication in his tone.

I glare at him, my nostrils flaring. “The fact that money wasn’t my main priority while watching my husband die should tell you everything you need to know,” I say pointedly. I try to remain calm but can feel my chest going up and down with each labored breath of anger.

“But you did make a point to take out an additional life insurance policy,” Officer Sorento says. “In fact, when we got a copy of that life insurance policy, you failed to mention that he had terminal cancer on the paperwork. It just said he was undergoing treatment. That could be insurance fraud.”

I frown at them, and my heart rate quickens. “You have a copy of it?”

“Hot off the press this morning from the insurance company,” Officer Sorento responds. He’s smirking as if to say ‘gotcha.’ “When you filled it out, you failed to mention that he was actively dying. Some would call that insurance fraud.”

“No… I’m… I’m sure that I put that!” I take the piece of paper that Officer Sorento has just pulled out of a folder that I hadn’t noticed he was holding until right now. I glance down at it and see what he’s talking about. Under the section where you are supposed to disclose all the medical information, I only wrote down that Erick had been diagnosed and was receiving treatment. No mention of his terminal diagnosis.

“Obviously I just checked the box for whatever fit best at the time, there was nowhere to write down more information about how bad it was,” I say, trying to maintain my composure so that I’m believable.

Officer Sorento takes the paper back and puts it back into the folder. “So, I’ll ask you again to provide me with Erick’s bank account statements.”

“I told you, I don’t have them!” I say, exasperated. “We had separate bank accounts.”

“We’ll go ahead and serve subpoenas to those banks and see what we can learn from his bank account statements and other bank records.”

“I’m not sure what you think you’re going to find, but go for it,” I shoot back at them.

“We’re also going to need more information about his diagnosis,” Officer Carwile says, jumping back into the conversation. It seems that he wants to diffuse the tensions. “We’ll call around to some places and see where he was getting treatment. There’s only a handful of cancer doctors and treatment centers in the area.”

“Why do you need to know so much information about his doctors and his diagnosis?” I ask, confused.

“The coroner needs this information for the autopsy,” Officer Carwile says.

“Autopsy?” I gasp. “Why are they going to perform an autopsy on him? I don’t consent to having my husband’s body cut open! His wishes were to be cremated and then placed on our mantle above the fireplace!” I beckon towards the fireplace at the other side of the living room. The very same one that he died in front of. The officers don’t need to know that I plan to dump out his ashes and replace them with sand. There is no way I’m going to keep Erick’s ashes in my house and let his memory continue to haunt me. But I’m absolutely not going to let them do an autopsy on him!

“I’m afraid you don’t have a say in the matter, and we don’t need your consent. It’s customary to do an autopsy in cases like this.”

“Cases like what?” I ask pointedly.

“Cases of… unusual deaths,” Officer Carwile looks like he tried hard to come up with that phrase. “It’s just not common for someone in their thirties to drop dead at home, even with a terminal cancer diagnosis. He would have probably been on hospice care or at a hospital or something. It just happened a little quickly so the coroner is going to go in and determine the exact cause of death. If he had end-stage cancer then they’ll probably find that one of his organs failed and that will be the official cause of death. Then you can get him cremated and do whatever you want. But there’s going to be an autopsy.”

My heart starts racing. This wasn’t part of the plan. Erick was so sure that his death would be ruled “natural causes” due to the cancer diagnosis. Having an autopsy was never part of our plan. How could we be so stupid to not think of that?

“He wanted to die at home,” I say, staring the officers down. “He didn’t want medical intervention, and he didn’t want to spend his remaining time on Earth in a hospital or with some nurse poking him every day. That’s why he wasn’t on hospice.”

“And that’s perfectly fine,” Officer Sorento says, “But so far we can’t find anyone else who even knew anything about Erick’s cancer diagnosis except you, so we’re just trying to get all the information that we can.”

“He didn’t want to tell other people,” I begin to explain again. “He started working from home. We avoided seeing friends and family members.”

“Even his own mother?” Officer Sorento cocks his head.

“Especially his own mother,” I nod, reciting the other part of the story that we had rehearsed. “Erick was too proud. He didn’t want people to feel bad for him or treat him any differently. He just wanted to go out on his own terms.”

“Okay, well thank you for the information. We’ll be in touch,” Officer Sorento nods, then stands up. Officer Carwile follows his lead and they both exit the kitchen and back towards the door. When Officer Sorento reaches the doorknob, he pauses for a second and looks back over his shoulder at me.

“Don’t leave town, okay?” he says.

I shake my head and furrow my eyebrows. “I wasn’t planning to go anywhere, but why can’t I leave town?”

“Just in case we have any further questions and need to get ahold of you. Especially after the autopsy.”

“I do have a phone, if that’s the case,” I say, annoyed.

“Well, a lot of good that does us if you won’t pick it up,” Officer Sorento says. “We called you ten times this morning and it went straight to voicemail.”

“I… I… I turned my phone off. I didn’t want people to bother me right now.”

“Don’t leave town,” he reiterates sternly. He glares at me as they close the door behind them. I stand there staring at it for a minute.

Shit.

CHAPTER SIX

FOUR YEARS PRIOR

Julie

Today is our one-year wedding anniversary. I can’t believe it has already been a year! It feels like just yesterday we were on our honeymoon vacationing in Hawaii. Erick was really in his element there. It was the first time I saw him relaxed and not worried about work.

Over the last year, we haven’t had anything as nice or exciting as when we were on our honeymoon. I’m still trying to figure out where the “spark” went, but I guess that’s normal. I wonder if married people all over the world are lying to us and it just goes downhill from here. Married life isn’t that bad, though.

I’m making dinner for Erick tonight. We don’t have a ton of money but I wanted to do something special for him for our first anniversary. When he left for work this morning, he hinted that he wants something nice for dinner. I went to the store today and found the cheapest steaks I could find. Erick loves meat. I’ll season it up with whatever I have in the cupboard and serve it medium rare just the way he likes it. How is he going to know that it’s cheap steak? Meat is meat. I also got two potatoes to make cheesy baked potatoes, plus a bag of pre-cut salad. He won’t know that it’s pre-cut salad, so I’ll still get credit for making it. Everything is going to be absolutely perfect for our first anniversary.

Tonight I’m going to talk to him about our timeline for having children. I thought Erick wanted to get started having children right after we got married. But on our honeymoon I brought it up and Erick said that he wanted to wait at least a year after we got married. Well, it has been a year. I’m ready now. I want to be a mom and I’m not getting any younger.

Ideally we will have four kids. We need to have enough children so that they can take care of us when we’re old, but we also need to have an even number for when we take them to Disneyland and places like that so that everyone has a ride buddy. We can’t have an odd number and two kids does not seem like enough. So four it is. If we are having four kids, we definitely need to get started now. Like… tonight. I think I will proposition Erick right after dinner while he is still full of endorphins from the meal. I make a mental note to bring up the conversation as soon as his fork hits the empty plate.

I came home from work early today to set this up. Normally I would stay after the school day is over to plan the next day’s lesson plan, but I decided to cut out early today to make dinner for Erick. I can let tomorrow’s lesson plan be tomorrow’s problem.

I work the rest of the afternoon to clean the house. Well… as clean as I possibly can get it. I’m not much of a homemaker but I can fake it when I need to. I take all the loose clothing from around the bedroom and toss it into the hamper, not bothering to do the sniff test to see if some of these items are actually clean. I just need it all off the ground. I pull up the covers on the bed to give the illusion that it’s actually made, and I fluff the pillows like I’ve seen them do on one of those HGTV shows. Next, I make my way downstairs where I organize the pillows neatly on the couch, and then shove everything that’s in the sink into the dishwasher. I take the same approach as I did with the laundry and just shove everything into the dishwasher to get it out of the way, without checking or caring whether it’s dirty or clean.

After conquering a few more rooms in this manner, I decide that the house is clean enough to pass Erick’s inspection. I check the oven – fifteen minutes remaining on the baked potatoes. I’ll throw the steaks onto the grill about five minutes before Erick comes home so that they will be nice and fresh for him. The salad will be easy since I just have to rip it and dump it out of the bag.

I realize how sweaty and gross I’ve gotten from “cleaning” the house. I sprint upstairs and take the quickest shower of my life, then follow it with a quick application of the bare minimum makeup, which for me is a little mascara and a touch of concealer on my old acne scars. I run a brush through my wavy hair, hoping it hasn’t gotten too frizzy and poofy from the shower steam. I should have left more time to wash and style my hair, but this is the best I can do right now. I still look nicer than I usually do, so it will still be fancy.

I run back downstairs and set the table with the tablecloth that we normally only bring out on holidays. I place potholders down onto the table and then put the hot plates of food down. I pour two glasses of red wine in wine glasses that I actually had to get from the top shelf of the cabinets – the place where we keep the nice things that we aren’t allowed to use on a daily basis. I want him to know that I’m going all out for this night, our first wedding anniversary.

As I’m putting the finishing touches on the table and considering whether lighting a candle would be too much, I hear the hum of Erick’s car pulling up to the house. I quickly glance around to make sure everything looks as good as it can look, and then I speed walk over to the entryway of the kitchen. I plaster a big smile on my face and wait.

Within a minute, the door opens and Erick comes through. He’s in the black suit that he left in this morning, only his tie is crooked and his shirt has visible wrinkles. He looks tired. A bouquet of red roses is in his right hand, and I smile a little bigger when I realize that they must be for me. How sweet of him!

Erick’s face perks up and he smiles when he sees that I’m dressed a little nicer than usual.

“Hey, babe!” he says, grinning. “Happy anniversary! These are for you.” He stretches out his arm to hand me the roses, and steps closer to the kitchen. He closes his eyes and plants a quick peck on my lips before turning to enter the kitchen. He freezes in place, taking in the set-up table in front of him.

My heart rate quickens as I wait for his delighted response, but he’s just frozen in the entryway. I take a step in front of him and grin again, looking from him to the table and back. I expect a smile to spread across his face any minute now, but it never comes. Instead, he frowns.

“What is this?” He says, taking in the view.

“I made you dinner! Happy anniversary!” I say with a big smile. I wait eagerly for the smile to spread across his lips, but it never comes. There is silence for a moment instead.

“I thought we were going to go out to dinner,” he says. The disappointment is prevalent in his voice.

“Well… I just thought that I could make you your favorites at home!”

“Don’t you want our first wedding anniversary to be special? How can it be special if we’re just staying at home?”

I can feel my face drop. Of course I should have thought about that. Of course he wouldn’t want to just stay at home for our anniversary. How could I have been so stupid! I feel the tears start to swell up and I feel a lump starting to form in the back of my throat.

“I’m sorry my love… I wasn’t thinking. We can go out somewhere!”

“Where are we going to get a reservation at this hour? McDonalds? Just forget it! I guess we’ll just celebrate our anniversary sitting at home.”

He looks upset, and I feel so stupid.

“I can’t believe I thought to get these nice flowers and you couldn’t even make a reservation!” His voice becomes louder and I can feel the anger oozing out of him. I’ve really messed up this time. He slams his hand down on the table and I recoil in surprise at the abrupt and loud movement. I take a step back, watching him closely with eyes wide.

He grabs the roses from my hand in one fell swoop and slams them on the table, sending rose petals and leaves flying across the place settings that I had just carefully laid out in preparation for our meal. I gasp at the abrupt movement. I’ve never seen him this angry before. I must have really messed up!

“I… I… I’m so sorry! I wasn’t thinking. Please don’t be mad, my love! I can still see if we can get a reservation somewhere!” I can feel my bottom lip quivering, and I feel a tear drop down my warm cheek.

I watch his face soften as he realizes what he’s done.

“I’m sorry, I’m just so stressed from work all the time! There’s no need to cry,” he says, wrapping an arm around me. “You’ll just know better for next time.”

His embrace feels warm and only mildly comforting as I feel how tense his body is.

“Okay,” is all I can manage to say. I swallow hard, choking back the heavy cries that want to emerge from my throat.

“It’s okay, I’ll eat whatever you made. I’m sure it will taste okay. Not as good as a real restaurant, but it will be okay.” He kisses the top of my head, and I can hear the anger in his voice subside. I sniffle into his arms.

I’m glad that he’s so forgiving, and I’m absolutely going to do better next time and remember that he wants to celebrate our anniversary out at a restaurant. And I’m glad that he says there will be a next time. The last thing I want to do is mess up this marriage.

CHAPTER SEVEN

FOUR YEARS PRIOR

Erick

Today is our one-year wedding anniversary. I had to work today, but before I left this morning, I strongly hinted to Julie that I’d like a nice meal tonight, so I’m expecting her to geta reservation somewhere nice. I know that money has been tight but she can afford it. After all, I pay all the bills (or at least, that’s what it feels like) so all the money she earns at her teaching job should be the fun money. I know we should be saving all of our money, but this is our first anniversary after all. Doesn’t she love me enough to make it special?

I make a point to leave work at a reasonable hour, and I stop to pick up red roses on my way home. Julie doesn’t have to know that I got the roses from the clearance section of the supermarket because they’re a couple days old. After all, isn’t it the thought that counts? I guarantee she hasn’t gotten me a gift.

I walk into the house, roses in hand, to see Julie standing in the doorway to the kitchen. I can tell that she put on a nicer outfit and made somewhat of an effort on her makeup. At least, more of an effort than usual. That must mean that we are going out to dinner!

I walk in and hand her the roses. Suddenly, the smell of something wafting from the kitchen hits my nose and I turn to see what it is. I’m shocked to see the kitchen table set with dinnerplates, and some type of food sitting in a dish on the table. It also looks like she has poured two glasses of red wine.

I don’t believe this! Does she actually think we are going to celebrate our first wedding anniversary eating at home?!I don’t even care if the food is good; that’s not the point. The point is that I specifically told her this morning (well, hinted) that I thought we should go out for dinner. How could she take something that’s supposed to be special and make it so… not special?

After I expressed how upset I was, Julie actually started crying and she apologized for not thinking. After she calmed down from the hysterics and her dramatic behavior after she messed up planning our anniversary dinner, we actually had a good time. The food she made wasn’t bad. Of course I had to make a couple comments about it being overdone so that she’d know to just make a reservation next time. I know we only have a few years where she could potentially be mistaken as a trophy wife, and I intend to show her off while her body is still looking good. There’s plenty of time for home-cooked dinners once she starts losing her figure.

Now we’re sitting at the kitchen table, sipping the last of our wine and enjoying the brownie sundae that Julie bought from the freezer section of the market. She didn’t even pretend that she made any part of that; she just took it out of the freezer in the box and unpackaged it in front of me.

She takes another sip of her wine. By my count, she’s on glass number three. She reaches for the bottle on the table, only for a frown to cross her face as she realizes that it’s empty. She looks across the table at me instead, and I see that look in her eyes. The look that means that she wants me… physically. You know what I mean.

My mood begins to perk up. I wonder if part of my anniversary present is her. I haven’t seen any lingerie since our honeymoon. Apparently she got a little bit too comfortable after we got back and decided to sleep in plaid pajama pants and baggy t-shirts. It would be nice if she tried a little, especially now for our wedding anniversary. They say things go downhill romantically after a while, but I just didn’t think it would be that quickly. It would be nice if tonight is the night she’s going to try to keep the spark alive.

Just as I’m about to ask her if she wants to head upstairs for the rest of the evening’s festivities, she starts talking.  

“You know…” she bats her eyelashes seductively, “You said when we had been married for a year we could start trying for a baby.”

I pick up my own wine glass and take a slow sip, buying myself time to think about what she is saying and to come up with answer.

“I did say that,” I say. Technically this is not an inaccurate answer; I did say that after all.

“Yeah,” she says, “So… do you want to go start that right now?” She stares at me, a look of hope in her eyes.

I can’t tell her that I’m not ready for kids yet. I’m still trying to enjoy my youth and the remaining years that Julie will look good in a dress like this. No need to rush into something like parenthood. But if I tell her that to her face then she will get mad and then she’ll probably cry and I’ll have to console her, and then I definitely won’t get any sex. But she’s definitely going to notice if I grab a condom from the drawer and wonder why I’m doing that if we are trying to have kids.

I think my only choice is to slip the Plan B pill into her drink tomorrow. I’m assuming it doesn’t have any flavor but I make a mental note to check on that before I buy it. I’ll put it in her morning smoothie and she won’t even notice, plus I’ll get extra points for preparing her morning smoothie for her. I’ll have to figure out a more long-term solution at some point, but that will work for now.

“Yes,” I smile devilishly at her, “Let’s go get started on that right now.”

CHAPTER EIGHT

PRESENT DAY

Julie

Today would be a good day, except it’s the day that I have to plan Erick’s funeral. It has already been almost forty eight hours since he died so of course the funeral director wants to get going on this. They book up quickly so I have to choose a day and time for the service. I chose next Monday morning at 11:00 a.m. I don’t know how many people will want to mourn Erick, but I made sure that it will be extra difficult for the people who have to take time off work to come. With any luck, they just won’t come. I hope it’s just a small group of people, like less than ten. I have no desire to watch fifty or more people cry over this man. I don't even know if Erick knew fifty people.

In many ways I think his life was such a mystery to me. He never told me anything. I didn't know anything that was going on at his work or with his friends, if he even had friends. He rarely talked about anyone. Sometimes he would go out, but he never told me where he was going. I guess now it doesn't really matter anymore.

I have no idea how long it will take them to do the autopsy, but it sounds like that part takes a few days. It’s a small town, how many dead bodies could there be? Are people lining up for autopsies? Or do they just take days to cut apart a body and poke its organs and then put it back together? I guess I really don't know much about autopsies.

I have been trying not to think about the autopsy because if I do, I want to throw up from the anxiety. I have no idea what they’re going to find, or what they’re even looking for. They’re going to find that he died from cancer and hopefully that will be the end of them poking at his dead body. I shiver just thinking about him lying dead on the table with his organs in a bowl next to him. Do they put them in a bowl? Or maybe a tray? I have no idea.

Then when the coroner is done with the autopsy, they will release the body so that we can bury him or cremate him. I’ve given it some thought and I think Erick would want to be cremated. That was part of our plan because he always said he didn’t want to “rot away in a coffin” and he wanted to keep watch of me from our mantlepiece, probably so that he can judge me for eternity. So instead of cremating him like he wanted, I’ve arranged to bury him in the cheapest coffin that I can find. Hey, if he’s not alive anymore then he doesn’t get a say in this. If he doesn’t like the coffin then I guess he can rise from the dead, come back as a ghost, and haunt me. His memories already do.

Of course my mom took the news hard. I told her last night. She hates hearing her daughter upset, and of course I had to pretend to be incredibly upset when I told her that my husband died. It hurt me to know that I was hurting her by showing this level of fake pain, but I couldn’t exactly pretend to be happy by the news, and I couldn’t exactly tell her that I was the one to do it. I don’t think she even liked Erick that much. Of course she pretended to like Erick because he was my husband, but she probably thought I could do better. Instead of mourning Erick, I think she was mourning the loss of potential grandchildren that we never had. She knows that now I’m going to have to start over with someone else, date for an appropriate amount of time, and then maybe have kids one day. And now I’m already thirty. I'm sure that was the real reason behind most of her tears. But I don't even really care anymore.

Now I am sitting on the floor of our bedroom going through old wedding pictures and family photo albums to try to find pictures for the slide show that will play at the funeral. I personally couldn’t care less about a slide show, but my mom insists that it would be nice to have pictures of Erick scrolling on the screen at his funeral so everyone can look back at the wonderful life he had, or whatever.

I hold up a black and white framed picture of Erick and me dressed up and sitting on a bench with flowers in the background. We are both smiling and looking at each other. The picture was taken a couple years ago at my cousin’s wedding. On the surface, we look happy. But the reason the picture is in black and white is because I had used a new makeup to try to cover some bruises, and I ended up looking like I had gotten a bad spray tan. Printing the picture in black and white hides those marks. I set the picture aside as a possibility for the slideshow. I’m tempted to find the color version of this picture and use that for the slideshow. If people are going to mourn Erick, then they should know the real Erick.

The next thing I pull out is a photo album from our honeymoon. My mom made it for us using pictures that we sent her, and pictures that we posted ourselves on social media. Of course it only contains the pictures that we wanted people to see at the time. We would never post the “bad” pictures, like the ones where Erick said he had a butt chin because I held the camera at the wrong angle.

I flip through the pages and pages of pictures of us snorkeling, paddle boarding, jet skiing, swimming, and lounging on the beach. I pull out a few of Erick and me where I look extra good, and I put them aside for the slide show. If I am the one to pick the pictures then I'm only going to use ones where I look good. He can have a butt chin for all I care.

Unfortunately, I don’t have any photographs from the last couple years of our life. I had them on my phone and made the stupid mistake of not backing up the pictures to the cloud thing. Erick had learned that I was taking pictures to document his abuse, and he smashed my phone. Of course that’s not what I told people when I went to go get the new phone. I told them that I had dropped it on the driveway and accidentally ran it over. The phone salesman had looked at me suspiciously, but ultimately did not push the issue. The phone was destroyed and there was nothing anyone else could do. So I got a new phone a few weeks ago and along with it, the wiping away of the last two years of my pictures, other than the nice happy ones that I have posted to social media accounts. I wish I could wipe away my memories of the last few years the same way Erick wiped away the pictures of those memories.

I spend another hour sitting on the ground pouring through pictures of us. There were some good times, I’ll admit. Some where I actually look happy. But most of it was just bad. Every positive memory I have was outshined by the bad in Erick.

I wonder who will come to his funeral, other than our parents. Did Erick have friends? Sometimes he’d say he was going out with his friends, but he never let me come and he certainly never brought anybody back to the house. Did he have a mistress? If he did have a mistress, is she going to be ballsy enough to come to the funeral? Does she miss him? Did he treat her well?

Just as I’m letting my thoughts run wild on all the possible scenarios of when and how Erick could have been cheating on me, I am startled by the phone ringing. I don’t recognize the number, but it has the same area code as my area code, so that might mean that I know the person. Or it could be a telemarketer. I decide to risk it and answer.

“Hello?” I ask.

“Julie?” I kind of recognize the voice, but it’s not familiar enough for me to figure out who it is from the voice alone.

“Yes?” I say.

“It’s Jennifer,” the voice says. Then when I remain silent, she adds to her statement. “Jennifer Kinley.”

“Oh!” I say, surprised. I am shocked to learn that the caller is none other than my old friend and college roommate. Jennifer and I were close in our early 20’s and she was even a bridesmaid in my wedding. But we quickly lost touch as my nights out became more of nights in with Erick, at his insistence. Each time I would try to hang out with her, Erick would guilt me by saying that I was getting too old to go out drinking with Jennifer. Jennifer had been known as quite the party girl, which is why I liked her in the first place. Going out with her was always sure to guarantee a good time and a bit of an escape from my life. Jennifer had also run a very successful “lifestyle” blog where she mostly just gossiped about local people at our college and around town. She was the first person to know everyone’s business. It’s one of the reasons that I never really told her about the real Erick. I couldn’t imagine ending up in the center column of her lifestyle blog.

But since drifting apart over the last few years, I realize now that I don’t even know what Jennifer is doing these days. 

“Hi Jennifer, how are you?” I ask, and it comes out like I’m conducting a job interview or something, and not as if we were close friends up until just a few years ago.

“Well, I’m doing okay, but I wanted to see how you are doing. I called as soon as I heard the news about Erick. I’m so so sorry!”

“Oh,” I say. Of course that’s why she’s calling. I have to put on my sad voice as I speak to her. “Yes, thank you for calling. I’m hanging in there.”

“Was it sudden? I wish you would have told me what was going on. I could have been there for you and Erick.”

I grit my teeth. The last thing I want to do right now is tell Jennifer the details of Erick’s death. As far as I know, Erick didn’t like her and she didn’t like Erick. He was a constant source of drama in my friendship with Jennifer as she constantly tried to break us up. I heard once that people will try to feign empathy when someone they know dies, but she didn’t even know him!

“It wasn’t that sudden,” I say, deciding to tell her a short version of the truth. “We found out a few months ago that he had cancer, but he didn’t want to tell anyone about it.”

“I had no idea!” Jennifer wails into the phone, starting to cry. “Poor Erick!”

For a moment I’m taken aback by her sudden outburst of sadness. It’s not as though she liked Erick, and she didn’t even know him that well. I can’t even remember the last time I saw her, much less the last time that Erick saw her.

 She continues blubbering into the phone. “Is there going to be a funeral?” I can hear her sniffling between every few words.

“Yes,” I say, rolling my eyes. I’m glad she can’t hear the sound of my eyes rolling through the phone. Why is she asking about the funeral? There’s no way she would ever come, considering she didn’t even know him!

“The funeral is next Monday morning. You probably can’t come because of work.”

“I’ll get the day off! I’m working at an accounting firm now. Super boring, but they do have bereavement pay so I can take time off for funerals and still get my full pay for that day. I’ll be happy to take a day off to be there for you!”

Great, so she’s using my husband’s funeral to get a day off from work, I think to myself.

“Fine,” I say. “I’ll see you there.”

“Okay,” she sniffs again. “Oh Julie, I swear if I had known, I would have-”

“You would have what, Jennifer?” I say, not trying to hide the irritation in my voice at all.

She seems taken aback by that. “I… I… I would have, I don’t know, come to visit, or done something for you. You could have told me how sick he was!”

I have no patience for this conversation anymore. I have no idea why she feels so entitled to private information that we didn’t even share with our family members.

“Did you call me to get more gossip for your blog, or did you call because you actually care about me and my dead husband?” I say pointedly.

The line is silent for a minute and I almost think that she hung up or got disconnected, until she finally does speak.

“I called because you were my best friend…are my best friend,” she corrects herself. “I’m sorry you’re going through all of this, but you don’t have to go through it alone. I’m here if you need me.”

“Thanks,” I say, still pointedly but not nearly as aggressive as my previous comment had been.

“Have a good night,” she says, and then I hear a click as the call ends. I slam the phone down and let a puff of air angrily out of my nostrils. She has a lot of nerve calling like that!

I can only imagine that this won’t be the only call that I will get like this. I’m sure every distant relative and former friend will be calling me to ask questions about Erick. Now I remember why I turned off my phone. I hold down the button on the side of my phone until the screen goes black, indicating that it is turned off.

I don’t know who will come to Erick’s funeral. But I do know that I can’t wait until it’s over. As soon as the coroner releases his body and lets me bury him, then it will all be over.

CHAPTER NINE

THREE YEARS PRIOR

Julie

Today is our two-year wedding anniversary. I was hoping to surprise Erick with the news that I’m pregnant. The only problem is… I’m not. I stare down at the pregnancy test in my hand, trying to trick myself into thinking that I see a second pink line. It doesn’t come no matter how hard I stare. I toss the test into the trash and let out an exasperated sigh. We’ve been trying for about a year, and it still hasn’t happened yet.

That’s not the only bad news of the day. I’m having lunch today with Erick’s mom. She’s in town for a few days for some sort of high school reunion and she asked us to go to lunch with her. I felt fine knowing that Erick would be there to run interference, but he just called an hour ago and told me that he can’t get out of work to come to lunch. So it looks like it’s just going to be me having lunch with Erick’s mom… alone.

I spend approximately ten seconds looking in my closet before eventually deciding on blue jeans and a dark green turtleneck sweater that I think is at least a step above casual but doesn’t seem like I’m trying too hard. It doesn’t really matter what I wear; Linda never likes what I wear anyways. For the same reason, I make very little effort on my makeup, choosing to forego any eyeshadow, blush, or lipstick, in favor of just a little concealer and mascara. If I wear too much makeup then she might think I’m a prostitute or something.

 I spy Linda from across the room. She is seated at a table for four even though there are plenty of two-seaters available. Typical Linda. She’s dressed in a blue floor length gown that looks like it cost the same as a mortgage payment, and her brown hair pools in loose curls around her shoulders that tells me she has spent all night in curlers or gotten up early to accomplish this look.

She has a look of disdain when she sees me, before she eventually changes her facial expression to a pleasant smile that I can tell she has to work to get. She stands up as I approach the table.

“Julie! How wonderful to see you!” Her voice is so chipper that I almost believe her.

“Hi Linda, so nice to see you!” I put on my best daughter-in-law voice and lean in to give her a hug that feels insincere. We quickly pull apart to sit on opposite sides of the table. I busy myself with looking at my menu, and we make polite small talk about the weather and traffic. By the time the waitress comes to take our order a few minutes later, I am completely out of things to talk about.

We hand over our menus to the waitress and then sit in silence, staring at each other. She gets up to go to the bathroom and I enjoy the brief silence that it brings. If she’s in the bathroom then that’s three minutes of this lunch that I don’t have to spend trying to talk to this woman by myself.

Normally when Erick is here, he is pretty good about driving the conversation so that I don’t have to worry about that. He’s not exactly a witting conversationalist, but he does know how to talk to his mother.

While she’s gone I try to think of good topics of conversation that will be neutral enough to not give away too much information about my life and leave that open to criticism, but also won’t be boring enough that she will tell Erick that I’m a mundane human who isn’t pleasant at social gatherings. She may have already told him that anyways, but who knows.

After what feels like over five minutes, she comes back from the bathroom and sits back down, smiling pleasantly at me. She was gone so long that I wonder if she was in there pooping.

The silence is palpable as I pretend to be busy drinking from my water glass and straightening my napkin. Just as I’m about to revisit the topic of the weather, she starts to talk.

"Are you hiding something, dear?” Linda looks at me and smiles, knowingly.

“Huh?” I ask. “Hiding what?”

“Well, I can’t help but notice that you’re wearing baggy clothes. And your face looks a little rounder than usual, like maybe you’ve gained a few pounds. And I can’t help but notice that you look tired with those big bags under your eyes. Is there anything you want to tell me?” She takes her hands and extends them out from her stomach, as if holding a big belly.

I frown at her for a minute, confused as to why she thinks it’s okay to tell me that I’m basically fat and ugly, or point out my 4-pound weight gain. Then it hits me what she’s asking. I breathe in deeply and let it out slowly, trying to compose myself so that I don’t reach across the table and strangle this woman.

“I’m not pregnant, Linda,” I say shortly.

“Are you sure? Maybe you’re in the early stages? It wouldn’t be uncommon for other people to notice the changes before you notice them yourself!”

“I’m sure,” I say flatly. And boy am I sure. I’ve never been so sure of anything in my whole life. I have dozens of negative pregnancy tests, including one from this morning, telling me exactly that.

Just to prove her wrong, I order a coffee with a double serving of Kalua in it. I wasn’t planning to drink alcohol during our lunch, because Linda would probably think I’m a floozy for that, but I need to do something to get her to shut up about the possibility of me being pregnant. When my drink arrives, I happily gulp it down, ignoring the fact that Linda looks like she’s going to break her teeth if she clamps her jaw shut any tighter. Up until that point, it was clear that she was hoping I was pregnant and just lying to her about it.

“So, you’re not pregnant, huh? Well, how is everything going with you and Erick?” The subtlety in her message is clear: If I’m not pregnant, then that must mean that Erick and I are on the rocks. After all, we’ve been married for two whole years and still not pregnant.

“Everything is great,” I say. I choose not to elaborate. The less details I give her, the less she can make comments about.

“Oh come on, you have to give me more than that! I hardly ever see you two since you choose to live so far away from me.”

Your choice, I think to myself. She has a lot of nerve trying to guilt us when she’s the one who chose to live somewhere else!

“Erick calls you all the time; I’m sure he keeps you plenty updated on our lives,” I hope that my subtle dig at their mother and son relationship is clear enough but not too rude. I need to be as petty as her or less than as petty as her, but I can’t be more petty than her.

“Well, you know how boys are,” she says, rolling her eyes, “Erick doesn’t tell me anything juicy. Just between us girls, how is everything going?”

I blink at her, trying to figure out what exactly she wants me to say. I don’t know what juicy information Ican give her about my life with her son. Does she want to know how he is in the sack? Is that the type of girl talk she’s looking for? Frankly, we don’t have any juicy information anyways. It very much feels like she’s trying to get information that simply does not exist. Aside from regular intercourse that feels more like a chore than anything else, I hardly ever see Erick. He has been at the office a lot lately and it feels like he comes home later and later every week.

“Erick has been working a lot,” I say, deciding that this is a neutral way of saying that I don’t have any hot and juicy gossip for her.

“Have you also been working a lot?” Linda asks. If this was anyone else, I’d think this was a normal conversational question. But it’s Linda, so I feel that her motives are probably to figure out if I am financially contributing to the household.

“I work the same hours as I always have,” I tell her.

“Sure,” Linda nods, “Those kids aren’t going to babysit themselves!”

I purse my lips, waiting to see if she follows that up with a ‘just kidding.’ She doesn’t.

“I don’t babysit the kids, Linda. I’m a teacher. I am responsible for teaching twenty kids… all day long.”

“But is it really teaching at that age? You’re really more of a glorified babysitter, right?”

I grit my teeth. “I teach second grade. This is a pivotal age, Linda. They are improving their reading and writing, learning how to add and subtract, learning basic scientific principles like evaporation and condensation, and learning about the history of our country, just to name a few things. And I am the one to teach them all of that. Not to mention that I have to prepare lesson plans, grade papers, and more. It’s difficult work. And it’s important work. I’m teaching our country’s future leaders!” 

“Sure, fine, but it’s not really the equivalent of a job like Erick’s. It sounds like he’s working long hours to support his family. The poor thing must come home so tired! The mental strain of his job sounds so intense. I hope you have dinner on the table waiting for him when he comes home each night, since you’re just teaching all day.” She says the word teaching like it tastes gross coming out of her mouth.

“Some would say that teaching is one of the most difficult jobs to have,” I say pointedly, trying not to glare at her. I’m not even sure why I’m explaining myself to her. If that’s really what she thinks elementary school teachers do then there’s nothing I’m going to say that will change her mind.

“Do you plan to stop teaching once you get that trust fund from your parents? It’s just another year or so until you get it, right?” she asks casually, sipping from her coffee cup.

I freeze, staring at her. She isn’t supposed to know about the trust fund. Erick and I agreed that we wouldn’t tell anyone about the money that I’m set to get.

“Excuse me?” I say, trying not to lose my cool.

“The trust fund that you’re going to get when you turn twenty-eight. Erick tells me that it’s going to be a lot, and that you might not be working much after that.”

“I… I…” I fumble over my words, unsure how to respond to her. I can’t even believe that Erick told her about the money. Before I can figure out what to say, she continues as if I’m not even part of the conversation.

“Is that why you decided to become a teacher? I mean, it must be easy to choose such a low-paid and low-effort career when you know you’re not really going to need to work beyond your twenties, right?”

I can feel my nostrils inadvertently flare out and in as I try not to react to what she’s saying.

“I became a teacher to help children,” I choose my words carefully. “And yes, it’s true that my parents have a trust fund set up for me, but it’s not that much. Erick and I both plan to continue working.”

“Oh,” she says, visibly disappointed. She looks down at her teacup and stirs it aimlessly. I can see her lips tensed up.

The remainder of the lunch goes fine, but we aren’t exactly acting like friends. We make polite chit chat about the weather again, and about sports (ew), and anything else that comes to my mind. I compliment her dumb outfit even though it feels like she belongs in a pageant instead of a simple lunch. She thanks me in a way that I think is almost sincere.

When an appropriate amount of time passes, I make an excuse to leave.

“Well, this was great, Linda. I have to get going to take care of some things at home. Thank you so much for inviting me to lunch!” I put on my best fake smile.

“It’s a shame that Erick couldn’t join us,” she says. “I don’t see enough of you two, but especially not enough of Erick.”

I grit my teeth. “Yes, it is a shame that Erick couldn’t join us. Hopefully next time.” I make a mental note to be mad at Erick for bailing and leaving me alone all afternoon with his mother.

CHAPTER TEN

THREE YEARS PRIOR

Erick

Today is our two-year wedding anniversary. My mom is in town and we are supposed to have lunch with her, but I just called and told Julie that I can’t get out of work and that she will have to go to lunch with my mom without me.

Of course, that was a lie. I’m not stuck at work. In fact, I’m already at the restaurant, waiting for Julie and my mom to arrive. But Julie doesn’t know that I’m here.

I want to see what Julie does and says when I’m not there, and my mom is the perfect person to spill details to me about how their lunch goes. She’s always trying to please me, so I told her that this is something I really wanted her help with. I’m also going to try to get my mom to talk to Julie about having children, and see what Julie is expecting for us. I’m also curious to see how much Julie decides to share with other people about our lives. Of course my mom already knows everything because I tell her, but I don’t want Julie knowing that and frankly, I am curious to see what she decides to tell my mom. And if she’s telling my mom secrets, who knows what else she is saying to other people.

My mom and I have planned this all out carefully. I’m going to hang out on the outdoor patio area that stems off the hallway on the other side of the restaurant bathrooms. Julie and my mom will be on the other side of the restaurant. When my mom needs to talk to me, she’s going to make an excuse to go to the bathroom and then we will regroup and talk about next steps.

I see Julie walk in and look around the restaurant. She’s wearing that green turtleneck sweater that I hate. She has such nice boobs and yet she never wants to show them off. What’s the point of that? It’s like she’s trying to be prude.

I watch as she sits down at the table with my mom. I hide just out of eyesight, but close enough to see their facial expressions and their lips moving. I can’t hear what they are saying, but their body language is that of two awkward acquaintances. They appear to make polite small talk and after a while I get bored and start to scroll my phone instead of looking at them.

It’s only a few minutes later when my mom appears near the bathrooms.

I frown at her. “What are you doing over here already? You’ve only been here, like, five minutes! You can’t possibly have anything to report back!”

“Oh Erick, I don’t know about this. I feel weird spying on her.”

“You aren’t spying, you’re just going to tell me everything that she says. You basically do that already anyways, just on the phone. This way you’re doing the same thing we always do but the only difference is that we are sharing the details in person instead of over the phone.”

“I guess that makes sense,” she frowns. “So what exactly do you want to know?”

I sigh, trying not to make it seem too dramatic. My mom can be a frustrating person at times since she rarely ever listens or follows instructions correctly.

“The two major things that I want you to ask her about are having children, and the money she is going to inherit.”

“But you already know that Julie isn’t pregnant, so that means I already know that Julie isn’t pregnant!”

I close my eyes and rub my temples, taking another deep breath in. I have already talked to my mom about this but apparently she wasn’t listening the first time.

“Mom, I know that Julie isn’t pregnant right now. I’ve made sure that she isn’t. What I want to know is what she is telling people about our plans to have children. I can’t have her going around telling people that we’re trying to have a baby. I want to know if that’s what she’s blabbing to other people, and what her expectations are!”

“Okay, I’ll ask her about that. What else did you say I’m supposed to ask her about?”

“The trust fund,” I remind her, “I want to know what she has to say about the trust fund. Push her hard on this one. It will probably be a surprise to her that you even know about it, considering that she and I agreed that we weren’t going to tell anyone.”

“Oh,” she frowns, “So then shouldn’t I not tell her that you told me?”

“No, obviously I’m the only person who would have told you. She’ll be a little bit mad at me for telling you, but I can handle it. That part is not important. Please, Mom. For the sake of my relationship, please get this information for me.”

“Why is it so important to you that you learn this information? Doesn’t your wife tell you things?” She tilts her head down and furrows her eyebrows at me.

“No, that’s the problem. She doesn’t tell me things. And it’s really important for me to know all the information about the money because…” my voice trails off.

“Because why?” My mom prods.

I sigh and put on a defeated look. “Mom, Julie has a problem.”

She blinks and frowns. “What kind of problem? Is there something I should know?”

“A gambling problem,” I say solemnly. “She doesn’t want anyone to know about it. I’m the only one who knows the full extent of her problem.” I can hear the lie flying straight out of my mouth. This is golden. Normally I hate lying about things to my mom, but I don’t have any other options. I have to tell her something in order to get her to understand the importance of finding out about that money. I can’t tell her that I really just wanted to know for my own benefit.

“Oh my goodness!” My mother clutches her hand to her chest as if reaching for a set of invisible pearls. “Why haven’t you said something earlier about this?”

“It’s not something that I wanted anyone to know. It’s kind of embarrassing for both of us, but especially Julie. And now you know why it’s so important that I find out about that money. I have a suspicion that she’s going to get it earlier than what she originally told me. She won’t tell me anything about it because I think she’s going to try to spend some of it on gambling and then claim that she got less than what she actually got. In order to protect her from herself, I need control of that money. I have to protect her from herself! This is important for our future!”

“Right,” she nods, but I have no idea whether she is buying this or not. I think she is because she sighs dramatically and looks at me. “This is something you need me to do. To save Julie from herself and prevent her from wasting all her money on gambling.”

“Exactly,” I nod knowingly. “Now get back out there, please. You’ve been gone too long. Julie’s going to think you’re pooping or something!”

“Right, got it,” she nods. She smooths her hair down even though she has no reason for it to have gotten ruffled just from walking over here. She slowly makes her way back to the table with Julie.

I watch, bored, as the rest of the lunch seems to go by without issue. It just looks like they’re making small talk over mediocre food. At one point I think about joining them just so that I’ll have something else to do other than stand here staring awkwardly.

By the time they finally get up and part ways, I’ve almost fallen asleep, and I’m pretty sure there are multiple servers who are concerned as to why I’ve been sitting in the same part of the restaurant for the past hour without actually buying anything.

Once Julie leaves, my mom gets up and heads back to where I’m standing.

“Well?” I say eagerly. “What did she have to say?”

“She didn’t really have anything interesting to say,” my mom says, frowning. “It was kind of a wasted afternoon really. She’s awfully dull.”

“What about the money? Did she confirm when she’s going to get it or say anything about what she plans to do with it?” I ask. I’m on the edge of my seat dying to know what she said about me and about our future.

“She wouldn’t talk about the money, other than to reluctantly confirm that she’s getting some from her parents.”

I frown. “Did you push her? Did you try to bond with her?”

“I did all of that! She simply wouldn’t give me any information,” she says defensively. “But Erick, she wants you both to continue working once she gets the money,” she says, frowning, “I thought we talked about you being able to work a little bit less so that you can come out to visit me more.”

This time it’s my turn to frown. “Yes, as far as I know that is the plan. If it’s as much money as I think it is, we both would be able to quit our jobs.”

“Well, apparently Julie doesn’t know that.”

“She isn’t thinking straight!” I say, exasperated. “I love her so much, but she’s going to make a terrible decision with that money, I just know it. That’s why it’s so important that I help her manage it.”

My mom sighs deeply. “Sorry I couldn’t get more information for you. Let me know what else I can do to help.”

“You’ve done enough, Mom. Thank you for trying.” I bend down and kiss my mom on the cheek.

It’s going to be even harder than I thought to get the information out of Julie. But I’ve got to get to that money one way or the other.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

PRESENT DAY

Julie

I woke up this morning feeling accomplished. Yesterday I got done almost all of the funeral preparation stuff. I finished gathering the pictures and sent them to my mother to prepare the slide show that she so desperately wants to do. I arranged for a catering company to make some sandwiches for the reception afterwards. I ordered a big dumb picture of Erick’s face to put on an easel at the entrance of the church when people arrive at the funeral. It’s also the picture I’ve used for the ceremony booklets. It’s a picture that he hated because he thought it made him look like he had two chins. The fact that he didn’t like the picture is an added bonus so that everyone can stare at his double chins for all eternity.

Yesterday I finally talked to my boss. She had already learned about Erick’s death by the time I got around to calling her, but I don’t have any idea who told her. I guess it doesn’t really matter. After a few tears and some blubbering on my end, she quickly agreed to let me go on leave for a month and said that she would check back in with me after that to see if I needed more time. Another check mark on my to-do list. Now I don’t have to worry about the whiny Kindergarten brats that I teach for at least another month. Maybe I won’t have to ever go back to work, depending on how much I get from Erick’s life insurance money after taxes and after investing it.

I also made a sad post on social media last night about Erick and gave the details of his funeral for anyone who might want to attend, while encouraging everyone to donate to the GoFundMe account that I set up for his funeral expenses. I might as well get some money out of this. As it turns out, coffins are expensive! Even picking out the cheapest one I could find, it was still $1,500. I should have just buried Erick in the yard and put out a nice cheese platter for everyone afterwards. If only.

But anyways, all of that stuff is finally taken care of. Now today should be a day of relaxation. After changing from my pajamas into my comfortable clothes, which really don’t look that different from my pajamas, I bounce downstairs and into the quiet kitchen. I take one look at the dirty dishes in the sink and frown. I take a look in the nearly empty fridge and frown. I guess I’ll have to start doing things like cleaning up and going grocery shopping.

Just as I am debating whether it would be appropriate for a widow to go grocery shopping only a few days after her husband died, I hear the doorbell ring.

“It’s probably another flower delivery,” I say out loud to absolutely no one. I look around the room at the half dozen bouquets that have already arrived from random people over the last day and a half. People love to give out flowers when someone dies. They aren’t particularly useful to me, but if someone wants to spend $100 for some flowers that are just going to die in five days then I’m not going to stop them.

I bounce over to the door and open it, thinking about where I’m going to put the next bouquet of flowers. But when I throw open the door, it’s not a flower delivery at all. It’s Officer Carwile and Officer Sorento, looking just as chipper as ever.

“Oh,” I say, a hint of disappointment leaking from my mouth before I can stop it.

“Sorry, didn’t mean to interrupt your morning again,” Officer Carwile says with a smooth customer service smile plastered across his face.

“That’s okay,” I say, trying to recover, “I just wasn’t expecting you two again, that’s all. Is everything alright? Are you just checking to make sure that I haven’t left town?” With that last quip, I glare over at Officer Sorento. I can tell that he understands the dig, but he says nothing in response.

“We didn’t necessarily have any concerns about you leaving,” Officer Carwile quickly jumps into the conversation again, “But we do have some more questions for you if you have time. May we come in?”

I get the idea that they are telling me, not asking me. I silently step aside and let them into the entryway, closing the door firmly behind them.

Officer Sorento immediately makes his way to the kitchen with Officer Carwile in tow. They both seat themselves on one side of my kitchen table.

Go ahead and have a seat, I think to myself. I have a feeling that these officers have no problem making themselves comfortable wherever they go. I just wish they weren’t quite so comfortable in my home.

“So… would you two like some coffee?” I have no idea why I’m offering that to them, but it seemed like something to say to fill the silence.

They look at each other, then back at me.

“Sure, we’ll have some,” Officer Carwile smiles at me while Officer Sorento remains silent. He looks like his face would break if he smiled.

“No problem! I’ll make it right now. Cream and sugar?”

“Yes for me,” says Officer Carwile. I look over at Officer Sorento, waiting for his answer.

“Black,” he says.

I deduce that he wants his coffee without cream and sugar, but it would have been nice for him to use a full sentence or say thank you or something.

“Coming right up,” I nod, heading over to the coffee pot, pulling out a filter, and measuring four large scoops of grounds into the machine. I take a deep breath to steady my hands as I realize that they are shaking. I fill the back of the machine with water from the sink and then press the button to turn the machine on. It immediately makes a whirring noise and begins to spit out brown liquid into the pot. I stare at the liquid as it descends into the pot, not wanting to turn around to look at the two officers until I absolutely have to. They make polite chit chat behind me as I continue to focus on the coffee pot filling up.

Once the carafe is full and no more liquid is pouring out, I reluctantly fill two mugs, dump some half and half and two sugars into one of the cups, and then pass them to their respective recipients. I watch as they each take small sips of the hot liquid. I turn back to the counter and pour myself a mug before finally sitting down at the table to face whatever conversation they are here for. This cup of coffee is going to do absolutely nothing for my anxiety because I can already feel my heart beating out of whack.

“So… you have some more questions for me?” I prompt them. At first I wanted to delay this conversation as much as possible, but now that they’re awkwardly sitting in front of me sipping my coffee at my dining table, I really want to figure out why they are there and get rid of them.

“Yes, we do have some more questions after we last spoke,” Officer Carwile starts, “And we appreciate that you’ve been so honest with us thus far.”

I know this police tactic. He’s trying to play good cop by complimenting me so that I’ll let my guard down. That’s fine, but it’s not going to work on me. I breathe a little deeper and let the questioning begin.

“Julie, I know this may be a hard question for you…” he looks uncomfortable and avoids eye contact, looking down momentarily before looking back up. “Was Erick seeing someone else?”

I blink at him. “What do you mean?”

“Another woman,” Officer Sorento butts in to the conversation. “Was he seeing another woman? Cheating on you?” Leave it to Officer Sorento to be rude and blunt.

“Of course not, why would you ask such a thing?!” I act defensive, as if the question has deeply surprised and offended me. In reality, I am sure that Erick was cheating on me. But if I say that then they’ll think I had motive to kill him, and I definitely don’t want them to have any other reasons to point the finger at me. This is now the third time they’ve come into my home to question me, and each time is making me more and more nervous.

“It’s just a question that we have to ask,” Officer Carwile explains, giving me a small smile. “We didn’t mean to imply anything.”

“Oh… okay,” I say hesitantly.

“So, unfortunately, we aren’t just here to have a cup of coffee and chat…” Officer Carwile says. My heart rate quickens and I wait for him to go on.

“I’m so sorry but we do have a search warrant for your home and vehicle, so we will need you to remain here at the kitchen table while we conduct a search of both of those places.” He pulls a white piece of paper out of his bag and places it face up on the table. I don’t need to even look at it to know that it is indeed a search warrant.

My heart pounds in my chest. “A search warrant?!” I exclaim. “What are you talking about? Searching for what?!” I can’t even believe what I’m hearing right now.

“For evidence of murder or attempted murder,” Officer Sorento says nonchalantly. “There are just too many things that don’t add up, and at this point we are considering that maybe there is some foul play going on here.”

“This is ridiculous! You will not come into my home and tell me that there is foul play! You may not search my home like I’m some sort of criminal! I have rights!” I start yelling nonsense at them, but they aren’t phased at all. I’m sure this is the same reaction they have experienced from countless others who have been served warrants before me.

“The good news is that it can help clear you as a suspect as long as we don’t find anything,” Officer Carwile says, jumping into the conversation in what is clearly a feeble attempt at trying to get me to calm down.

“And what exactly do you excellent officers think you are going to find in my home?” I say sarcastically, drilling my glare straight into him.

“We don’t know yet, but I guess we’ll find out soon,” Officer Sorento smiles at me as he pulls on a pair of black latex gloves from his pocket. It takes everything in my power not to reach across the table and smack him in the face.

Instead, I sit, silently fuming. My nostrils flare and my heart beats uncontrollably. I think about what they could possibly find in my house that could incriminate me. I have a feeling this is going to be bad.

CHAPTER TWELVE

TWO YEARS PRIOR

Julie

Today is our three-year wedding anniversary. I’m having brunch with my mom today. I don’t want to have brunch with my mom, but she’s in town, so that means I have some sort of obligation to stare awkwardly at her across a crowded diner while we gorge ourselves on appetizers, avoiding having any sort of meaningful conversation with each other.

It reminds me of the time that I had lunch with Erick’s mom on our anniversary last year. Do our moms just want to interfere with our anniversary on purpose? Or is it just a coincidence that they only come into town at this time of year? At this point I’m really not sure which one of our moms is worse. It’s hard to tell because my mom tends to be more judgmental, considering she doesn’t hold back at all when she’s criticizing me. On the other hand, Erick’s mom can be judgmental too, and it feels more awkward when she pries into my personal life. But considering I’m about to meet up with my mom, in this moment it definitely feels like my mother is the worse of the two.

I see her across a slightly crowded Café La Paz. She’s wearing an unnecessarily skin-tight red dress that hugs her curves in all the right and wrong places. It really doesn’t leave much to the imagination. As she sees me, she stands up and reaches out to embrace me with a hug. She smells like judgment and Chanel number five.

I hope I inherit that ass, I think to myself as we embrace. She’s a little pudgy around the middle but my mom does have a nice butt, I’ll give her that.

“You look… nice,” she says, looking me up and down. I’m not sure if it’s my imagination, but she spends a little too much time staring at my midsection. There’s not exactly anything to look at there, and I can tell that she notices that fact.

She looks back up to my face and frowns. “Are you tired?”

“A little bit,” I answer truthfully. Erick couldn’t sleep last night, so he wanted me to stay up until he fell asleep. He said it wasn’t fair that I got to enjoy rest while he was awake and stressed out from his long day at work.

It also took about a pound of makeup to hide the bruising around my eyes this morning. Apparently I didn’t do a good enough job hiding the bags under my eyes, either.

I ask my mom questions about her life in the hopes that it will take the attention off of me and my face. We make polite chit chat about her job, her new boyfriend, her kitchen remodel, and more. She loves talking about herself. By the time our food is delivered to the table, I feel like I’m all caught up on my mom’s life.

“How is Erick?” My mom asks before stuffing the end of a croissant into her mouth.

“He’s been okay,” I say. Apparently my face is not convincing enough, because my mom swallows her bite of food and glares at me.

“What’s wrong? Is he not okay?” She asks.

I sigh and decide there’s no use in hiding it from her. I might as well be honest. “It has just been hard,” I say honestly. “He’s just upset about everything all the time. Nothing I do is right. I feel like we’re fighting all the time.” I leave the words out in the air and hope that she catches on. I would never tell her about the abuse because she wouldn’t believe me, and because she would probably somehow try to make it my fault. She’d say I wasn’t trying hard enough or that if I only did something different, then he wouldn’t have done it.

“What do you mean? Are you saying that you’re going to throw in the towel?” She glares at me, almost as if to challenge me.

“I’m not saying that I’m going to throw in the towel!” I say, defensively.

“Well then what are you blabbering about with all of this talk about him getting upset about everything? What is he getting upset about?”

I can feel the wind wooshing in and out of my nostrils and I breathe deeply and try to maintain my composure.

“For example,” I say, “This morning I told him that we have restaurant reservations this evening for our anniversary, and he got mad that I didn’t make them at a more expensive restaurant. As if we have money to go to fancy restaurants! The reservation I made is at a place that I already know he loves, so I don’t know what the problem is. We’ve been there tons of times before and he loves it. But he got mad at me and wants me to make a reservation somewhere else!”

It feels good to get this all off my chest and at least tell someone about the fights that Erick and I have. Surely, my mom can see how unreasonable he is being. But she does not immediately agree with me as I expect her to. Instead, she frowns at me and sighs dramatically before opening her mouth to lecture me.

“Julie, marriage is hard work. It takes a lot of sacrifice and effort, and you need to be willing to put in the time.”

“I know marriage is hard work, Mom,” I say.

She continues as if she didn’t hear me. “Erick might not be the perfect person but frankly, neither are you. That much I know for sure. Do you really want to end this marriage so quickly and then try to move on with someone else? Do you really think that you have time to do that?”

I frown at her, trying to take in what she’s saying to me. “I know I’m not perfect,” I say, the air whooshing in and out of my nostrils as I try to hold back tears. If I cry in front of her then it will just be one more thing for her to make fun of me about.

“Well, you’re acting like you’re a huge catch and that you can just find anyone in the world to love you. You are taking Erick’s love for granted. You chose to marry him. You don’t have time to start over, so you better make it work.”

“What do you mean I don’t have time to start over? I’m only twenty-eight years old!”

“And by the time you divorce him, find someone else, and convince that person to have a baby with you, your childbearing years might be long gone.”

I blink at her, not knowing what to say. After I’ve had a chance to recover mentally from her words, I stare at her, confused. “So this is all about babies to you? You want grandchildren so badly that you don’t even care who I have them with?”

She sighs dramatically. “Don’t be silly, Julie. Of course this is about babies. Why else would you have gotten married if not to start a family? That’s your purpose as a woman, and you are to have any babies that God has in store for you.”

“Well, I definitely want kids,” I say, nodding. I choose to ignore the rest of her words. This is the same typical nonsense that I’ve heard my whole life. My mom is a traditionalist who believes women were put on Earth to serve men.

“Well, like I said, you aren’t getting any younger,” she says, crossing her arms across her chest. I can tell that I’ve upset her from the way that her eyebrows furrow together, accentuating the wrinkle lines on her forehead.

I sigh, deciding that now is a good time to tell her. Maybe she will be less disappointed in me if she knows that I am actually on the same page as her.

“Mom… I actually do want kids, and have wanted them for the last few years,” I take a deep breath, deciding that it is the right thing to do to tell her, “Erick and I have actually been trying for a couple years now.”

My mom’s eyes perk up and she uncrosses her arms, leaning forward.

“You have?!” The look on her face flashes from shock and surprise to happiness, and in that brief moment, I am glad I told her. But her face quickly turns to confusion. “What do you mean you’ve been trying for a couple years?”

“Mom, I’m saying that Erick and I have been trying to get pregnant for a couple years. We want kids, too. But it’s just not working for whatever reason.”

She fans herself with her napkin, even though it’s not hot in here. She looks like she’s cautiously holding back excitement.

“Well, what is the issue then?” she asks. “Where is my grandchild?”

Her words sting. I’m not just having her grandchild, I would be having my child… our child… mine and Erick’s child. But I choose to ignore her words. She’s just excited at the idea of being a grandma.

“I’m not sure what the issue is,” I say truthfully. I hadn’t intended to spill all the details of my life to my judgmental mother, but it does feel good telling someone about our struggles. I don’t exactly have friends lining up to have coffee with me and hear about my problems.

“We’ve been trying for a while and it’s just not working,” I say.

“Well, what have you tried so far?”

I shift uncomfortably in my chair. There’s no way I’m about to have this conversation with my mother. I decide to just give her enough details that she hopefully doesn’t ask follow-up questions, but not too many details so that I won’t be able to look her in the face again.

“We’ve tried everything in the book. All the old wives’ tails. I tracked ovulation, laid in a certain direction, ate various foods and vitamins… nothing has worked.”

“Have you tried doing it every day?”

I’m just glad I wasn’t drinking something when she said that or it would most certainly be out my nose right now! She looks serious though… this is a serious question, apparently.

“We… we have tried it all,” I respond, settling on what I hope is a neutral answer.

“Have you tried doing it twice per day?” She asks, somehow more serious than the first time. I am thoroughly shocked by my mother’s inquiries, but also fascinated at how strategic she is being about these questions.

“Yes… we have tried it all.” That is all the detail I am comfortable giving her.

She sits thoughtfully for a moment, staring into nothing. I sit there watching her stare into the abyss and wonder if she is picturing me and Erick doing it every day. Just as I wonder if she’s about to ask me if we ever do it three times per day, she opens her mouth to talk again.

“You know you’re set to receive your trust fund inheritance when you reach age thirty,” she starts.

“Yes, I know,” I say. I immediately soften my voice once she mentions the money. Is she about to tell me that I’m not going to get it?! Is she that mad at me for not having a baby? Is the trust fund supposed to be contingent upon me having a baby? Why is she talking about my inheritance right now?! I take a few deep breaths, trying not to panic.

“You know,” I say, “I’m really grateful that you decided to create a trust fund for me. That’s just so generous of you.”

“Well, it’s not really generous. Your father died and he left that money, and his will specified that it is to go to you by the age of thirty. It’s not as though I want to give a chunk of money to a young person who is going to do who-knows-what with it.” She looks down and starts picking at her food. I blink at her, not at all surprised by the way she talks about my father’s death so nonchalantly.

“Well, I’m grateful for it, whatever the reason,” I say, not wanting to rock the boat. I’m not about to scold her for the way that she talks about it right now. I’m not going to give her any reason to potentially decide to take the money back. “And the money will be well spent, I want you to know that.”

“I know it will,” she says, looking back up at me. “Because I’m going to give you the money now.”

I’m silent for a moment as I attempt to process what she just said. I wonder if maybe I’m hearing things.

“You… you what?” I ask.

“I’m going to give you the money now,” she says again. There is no emotion in her voice whatsoever, and I find it hard to figure out what her feelings are about this.

“You’re going to give me the money now? Instead of when I turn thirty?” I ask, flabbergasted. I just want to make sure that I’m hearing her correctly.

“Yes,” she says, a hint of annoyance in her voice now. “I have the power to give it to you early, and I think now would be a good time. I expect that you’ll use some of the money for fertility treatments so that you can get pregnant. Or pay for a surrogate if you have to.”

She sits back, crossing her arms. Her body language says that she is challenging me, yet there’s still no emotions in her voice. The way she’s talking about this is as if she’s tasking me with bringing butter to Thanksgiving.

“So… I can only have the money if I use it to make a baby?” I ask. The words sound silly coming out of my mouth, but I can’t stop myself from asking. I just want to be clear on the expectations with this money before I get it. Is she trying to pay me to have her grandchild? Is this an incentive to get it done, or is this truly just a generous gesture from a parent wanting to see their child happy?

“I’m not paying you to have a baby! I’m giving you an opportunity to use the money early on something that you were probably going to use it on anyways. If you’ve really been trying for that long, then I don’t see how your luck is going to change between now and age thirty, and I’d rather you do fertility treatments now if you are going to do them at all. Your eggs are going to be a lot better in your twenties.”

“Wow!” I say. Even if her motives are not good, it’s still a good thing. That money could come in handy for a number of reasons. But she’s right that the main thing I’d use it for right now is fertility treatments. Obviously whatever Erick and I are doing isn’t working, so maybe it is time for that next step.

“I’ll call up the lawyer tomorrow and arrange for it,” she says nonchalantly, busying herself with her food. “You can start reaching out to fertility specialists and even surrogacy agencies as soon as the ink is dry on the check.”

“Thank you, Mom!” I am speechless other than that.

I guess it’s time to tell Erick that we have some options now. But for some reason, I feel unsure about whether I should even tell him about the money right now.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

TWO YEARS PRIOR

Julie

It’s the evening of our three-year wedding anniversary, and I have a secret to tell Erick. He’s going to be so excited when he finds out. It’s all we’ve been waiting for and talking about for the last few years.

I decided that I’m going to tell Erick that I’m getting my trust fund early. After I left brunch with my mom this morning, I realized that Erick and I are married and the money is really going to be our money, not just mine. It wouldn’t be fair if I don’t tell him. Plus, it has been a goal for both of us to have kids, and that’s what I’m going to use the money on anyways. He talked about wanting to buy a bigger house and a luxury car and things like that, but we always mentioned spending the rest of it on kids. Why shouldn’t he know the information right away when it affects him, too? We could use the money on fertility treatments right now like my mom wants, and then put the rest away for when I actually turn thirty.

I’d be lying if I said that I’m not a little nervous to tell him. I briefly considered not telling him about it. I could just keep the money in an investment account somewhere and tell him when I was supposed to get it anyways.

But the truth is that we could really use the money right now. I looked into fertility treatments and they are expensive. Babies are expensive in general, but when you can’t make them the natural way, the cost tends to add up even more. This money would allow us to finally start our family and get the babies that we always wanted. The rest of our wish list isn’t nearly as important, and I think that Erick will see it that way, too.

Now I’m sitting across the table from Erick at the “mediocre restaurant” (his words) where I made reservations for our anniversary. I watch as he pushes his food around on his plate, taking occasional bites. I push my own food around, too nervous to say anything.

I think about how I’m going to start this conversation. He’s going to be happy about the money, I’m sure. But I want to be clear on the intentions of the money.

I take a deep breath and put my fork down.

“Erick,” I say, getting his attention. He looks up and puts his own fork down.

“Yes?” He cocks his head to the side. We don’t normally talk like this, so I wonder what he’s thinking I’m going to say.

“I have some news to tell you,” I say. For whatever reason, I can feel my heart beating in my throat. I don’t know why I’m so nervous to tell him.

“What is it?” He asks, and I can almost see his own heart start beating faster. He looks nervous.

“Well, you know I had brunch with my mom this morning…” I say, trailing off.

“…Yes?” He prompts. “Spit it out, I don’t have all day!” He frowns angrily at me.

I decide to just spit it out. “My mom wants to give me my trust fund money early.”

Erick blinks and looks as though this is the last thing he expected to come out of my mouth.

“She wants to give us the money early?” I notice his use of the word ‘us’ when I had said ‘me,’ but I’m not bothered by it. It is his money too since we are married.

“Yes, she wants to give us the money early,” I confirm.

“How early?” He looks suddenly excited, and his face has eased some of the tension that he had a moment ago.

“Like… now. She says we can use it for fertility treatments since we haven’t had any luck getting pregnant naturally.”

He frowns and scoffs. “You told your mom that we are trying to get pregnant? Why would you do that?”

“I… I didn’t mean to! It kind of just slipped out. She thought we didn’t want kids and that we weren’t trying, and she was trying to pressure me into starting to have kids without knowing that we’ve already been trying. I just wanted her to know that it’s not my fault that she doesn’t have grandkids yet!”

“So you asked her for the money early so that we can pay a doctor to get you pregnant? Is that what you did?” He looks angry but I’m not sure why.

“No! I didn’t ask her for anything. It was her suggestion!”

He takes several deep breaths in and out, and it seems like he’s trying to calm himself down. He rubs at his temples with his thumb and pointer finger and then looks back up at me.

“So when she gives us the money, she expects us to use the money on fertility treatments and get pregnant right away?”

“I… I…. I think that would be the expectation, yes.”

“But it’s your money! Our money!” He corrects himself. “How can she tell you what to do with our money? Can she add contingencies like that?”

“I’m not sure,” I say honestly. “All I know is that my dad left the money to me for when I turn thirty, but my mom is the one who is tasked with giving it to me. I think it is her choice whether I get it early or not. So I’m not sure if it’s a contingency exactly, but I know that she doesn’t have to give me the money early. We could just wait a couple more years to get it.”

He sits quietly for a minute, looking thoughtful.

“What if we just tell her that we are using it for that?” He asks.

“What do you mean? What else would we use it for? Haven’t we both been wanting to have kids? I assumed you’d want to use it for this purpose anyways.”

“Well hold on a second, babe. Let’s not make any big decisions about this right now. I think the smart thing to do is to invest the money. Tell her we are going to pay for fertility treatments right away. Get her to send the money. Then just let me know once it’s in our joint account and I’ll transfer it over to my investment portfolio to get it invested with the rest of my money. When it’s nice and big, I’ll give a portion of it back to you so that you can look into the fertility treatments.”

“You… you… you want me to give it to you so that you can put it in your investment account? The one that I’m not allowed to look at?”

He sighs dramatically, as if I’ve said the stupidest thing on the planet.

“We’ve been through this before,” he says, “The financial planner is going to treat us differently if your name is on the account. It’s better to keep it in my name only. But it’s our money, I promise.”

“He’s not a very good financial planner if he is going to treat us different just because I’m a woman!” I cross my arms at him defiantly. He chuckles softly and shakes his head, as if he’s reacted to something a small child said.

“He’s the best financial planner in the business. It’s not personal, it’s just that unfortunately some companies treat women differently, so in order to protect us and protect our money from that situation, we need to make sure that we keep a low profile and just have my name on the account. You wouldn’t understand because you haven’t been investing for basically your whole life like I have.”

I ignore his comments for now. It’s true that I don’t know anything about investing or whether it would make a difference to have a man’s name or a woman’s name on the account. But not knowing about investing has nothing to do with me being a woman and everything to do with me not caring about money or how to manage it. Maybe it would be a better idea for me to let Erick take control of it for a little while.

I return to my original train of thought.

“Does that mean that you want to pause trying to have a kid? I thought we were on the same page with that?” I ask, dreading the response.

“Of course, babe!” He reaches out to take my hand in his. “But you don’t want to keep trying a little bit longer to see if it happens naturally? I just feel like we’d be wasting a chunk of our money when the solution to that issue is right under our noses.”

“We’ve been trying the natural way for two years and it hasn’t been working!” I say, exasperated.

“That’s not that long in the grand scheme of life, babe. Some people try a lot longer than that.” He looks at me like I’m a third grader, which only makes me more frustrated.

“I don’t care what other people are doing!” I say, “I care what we are doing. And we are doing it a whole lot without seeing any results. I just don’t think it’s going to happen the natural way.” Doesn’t he realize that we have a solution to this?

“There’s so many other things we can do with the money, and I know that I can make it even bigger. Babe, just give me six months with this money and I promise I will grow it big. I’ll double it. Then we can pay for the fertility treatments plus whatever else we want. We can buy a bigger house for our kids. The possibilities will be endless!”

“And you are confident that you can grow the money like that? To double it? How are you going to do that?” I frown at him, holding back a sniffle.

“I know how to invest the money so that it will grow and work for us,” he explains. “If we just spend it right now then it’s not working for us, you know what I mean? I have an economics degree, trust me.”

I frown at him. “I thought you majored in something involving technology or science?”

He huffs at me. “I did, but I also fulfilled the requirements for an economics degree. My college wouldn’t give out two degrees so I had to pick one to put on my diploma. But I fulfilled the requirements for both. And you have to trust me on this. We need to invest this money, not waste it.”

“You think spending it on fertility treatments when we’ve been trying to have a baby is wasting the money?” My voice gets louder by the end of the sentence. I can’t believe what I’m hearing come out of his mouth! My breathing gets a little faster and I try to blink back tears.

“What’s another six months of waiting when we’ve already been waiting? Don’t you want to set this baby up for a good financial future? Babies are expensive,” he says.

I can hear the air rush audibly in and out of my nostrils as I take two quick deep breaths after what he just said. As if I didn’t know that babies are expensive! I have done nothing but research about babies for the last few years! Countless nights spent on the computer pouring over details.

But it doesn’t seem that Erick is implying that I don’t know anything about babies. I decide to give him the benefit of the doubt. It’s possible that he has also spent countless nights pouring over the details of babies.

“I know that babies are expensive,” I say, trying to maintain my composure. “But this is a lot of money. Even after we pay for the treatments and pay for the medical bills for the birth, there is still plenty of money leftover to set this kid up for a good future, especially if we both keep our jobs.”

He frowns at me. “You think you’re going to work when the baby is born? And then what, just hand it off to some daycare to raise?” He says the word daycare like it tastes bad coming out of his mouth.

“Well… no…” I start to say, frowning. “I just meant that I will eventually go back to work… not right away, obviously… but I don’t intend to just do nothing…” I get less confident the more I talk about it. I guess Erick and I never really discussed our plans to actually raise a kid if we have one. That seems like a pretty important step yet somehow it seems that we’ve glossed over it.

“Why would we need to work if you’ve got all that money?” he asks. I notice his use of words and it stops me in my tracks.

“Why would we need to work?” I ask. “Don’t you mean why would I need to work? If I’m the one having the kids and taking care of them, and it’s my money, then wouldn’t I be the one to stay home? Why wouldn’t you work?”

Erick’s face looks furious, and I immediately realize the mistake I’ve made.

He glares at me and raises his voice, “So you think you’re just going to sit at home doing whatever with all that money in the bank, while I go out and work all day? How is that fair? Aren’t we supposed to be a partnership?” I can tell that Erick is so mad that if this was one of those cartoons where the smoke comes out of someone’s head, Erick would have smoke pouring out of his ears right now.

“I thought you wanted me to stay home to raise our children, like a stay at home mom,” I explain quickly, trying to diffuse the tension, “I anticipate that we’d both still work somewhat, if that is right for both of us. Things could change once we have kids, you never know. Let’s just keep our options open right now.”

Erick takes multiple heavy breaths in and out, and I can see the tension in his forehead get lighter.

“Let’s worry about that when the day comes, my love,” he finally says. “Just get your mom to transfer the money and I’ll take care of the rest.”

“Okay, my love.”

My heart is practically beating out of my chest by the end of our conversation.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

PRESENT DAY

Julie

Officer Carwile and Officer Sorento start their search in the kitchen, pulling out drawers and shuffling through them. They are not at all gentle with my cutlery and I hear the silverware clanging back and forth as they quickly shove each drawer open and closed. The two men work noisily through each cabinet and drawer, and I’m convinced that they are being dramatically loud on purpose.

Officer Carwile is at least attempting to put things back in places where they belong. I watch as he carefully lifts things up and places them back down. Officer Sorento isn’t even trying to hide the fact that he’s not. He looks almost gleeful as he rips out my drawers, tousling everything inside and not even bothering to shut one drawer as he moves on to another.

I remain quiet even though it’s absolutely killing me to watch them search my home. I want to tell them to mind their own business, but I imagine that will not go over very well. I’m not sure what they are hoping to find in my kitchen. A bloody knife? Poison? A suspicious-looking kitchen appliance? It’s a total mystery to me. Yet I find myself still increasingly nervous as they search from place to place.

After about fifteen minutes, they move on to the living room. I get up from the table and stand in the doorway between the kitchen and living room. I watch quietly as they spend extra time searching around the area where Erick’s dead body had been laying just a couple days prior. They lift up furniture and search in between the couch cushions. I’m still not sure what they are looking for in here. Some loose change? I question whether I should ask if they need help moving the furniture, but quickly decide against saying that out loud for fear that it will come out a little too sarcastic. I’m still trying to pretend to be a grieving widow after all.

Occasionally, Officer Sorento looks up to make sure I’m still there. I assume they’d be keeping a closer eye on me if they weren’t already blocking my only way out of the house. That’s probably why they wanted me in the kitchen when they initiated this little search. I can’t believe I made them coffee. I’d hate to think that I contributed to the energy they are using to pull apart my house right now.

After what feels like an eternity, they’ve searched the entire downstairs and apparently found nothing of interest. Or at least if they did, they are hiding that information from me. But I haven’t seen them take anything yet or even show any interest in anything, so that must be a good sign.

“Garage time,” Officer Sorento says to Officer Carwile, and a little too excitedly. My heartrate begins to quicken again. I can’t even remember what’s in the garage. I take some deep breaths and remind myself not to look too nervous. I know I didn’t do anything wrong in the garage and I’m sure there’s nothing in my garage that they will find of interest.

Officer Sorento has me stand just inside the garage, on the opposite side from where the door swings out. I deduce that this is so it will be more difficult for me to run away. I stand still while they go through all of the drawers in Erick’s tool box, all the boxes of holiday directions, and cabinets that I haven’t even touched in years. At the far end of the garage they find the cleaning supplies, which I’m sure are nice and dusty by now as Erick and I hardly ever cleaned.

Officer Carwile leaves the garage and returns with big black bags marked “EVIDENCE,” and I watch as the two men start to carefully load all of the cleaning supplies into the bags. This is the first time I see them actually take anything.

“What are you doing?” I ask, confused, as I take a few steps towards them.

“Stay where you are,” Officer Sorento barks at me. I stop in place.

“Why are you bagging up my cleaning supplies?” I ask them. I try not to have annoyance in my voice but it unintentionally comes through anyways.

“Potential evidence,” Officer Carwile explains as he continues to bag the supplies. “In the event that we find out that Erick was poisoned or something, then we can see if any of these chemicals match. The coroner usually does a stomach analysis in cases like this, so this will also streamline that process.”

Cases like this. There’s that phrase again. Are they thinking that I poisoned Erick?! That would be a stupid thing to do.

“You can see that none of these cleaning supplies have been used in months,” I say defensively. “They are covered in dust. But if you want to waste your time then go right ahead.” I cross my arms across my chest defiantly.

Neither man responds. They’ve probably heard this all before. Once they’ve finished bagging up the cleaning supplies, they place them near the front door.

“Alright, let’s head upstairs,” says Officer Carwile.

“After you,” Officer Sorento looks at me.

I want to argue with them about going up the stairs first, but I decide not to push the issue. They don’t want me to run away, so of course they aren’t going to let me go last. Maybe I could convince them to just handcuff me to the front door so that they know I won’t leave.

I stomp up the stairs with the two men in tow. I wonder if they are looking at my ass while we walk up the stairs. The first door on the left is my bedroom.

“Let’s start in the master bathroom,” Officer Sorento says. They pause at the entrance to the bedroom and I deduce that they want me to lead the way.

“It’s actually out here,” I say, opening a door adjacent to the master bedroom.

“The master bathroom isn’t inside the bedroom?” Officer Sorento questions me.

“What can I say, I didn’t design the house,” I shoot back at him sarcastically.

I pause outside the door to the bathroom, expecting them to go in. They both stand there as if waiting for something, and I quickly realize that they want me to go first again. I stomp into the master bathroom and stand behind the door, allowing them to enter. They close the bathroom door so that we’re all standing in the bathroom together. I can smell the cheap cologne that one of them is wearing.

“Have a seat,” Officer Sorento says, grinning and pointing to the toilet. I glare at him for a minute, trying to decide if he’s kidding, but I quickly realize that he is not. I stomp over and listen as the bathroom tile makes a satisfying clomping noise underneath the weight of my feet. I sit firmly on top of the plastic toilet seat, crossing my legs defiantly across my body. Once I'm in place, the two men get to searching.

I watch as they rifle through the bathroom, paying a little too much attention to my medicine cabinet. They grab all of the pill bottles off the shelves and drop them into a white bag after taking pictures of them.

“Do you need any of these?” Officer Carwile asks, even though he’s already dumped them all into a bag. I would like my antacid medication since I get heartburn if I don’t take one every morning, but it’s not worth arguing with him about. I’d rather give them all of the medications in the cabinet and not have one more thing to fight with them about. I’ll just go buy some generic crap over the counter later.

“Nope, they’re all yours, enjoy,” I say flatly, crossing my arms across my chest. I don’t even remember what the other medications are. Erick took so many things when he was going through cancer treatments, but he never really told me what they each were for. It could be a bunch of baby aspirin or vitamins for all I know.

I watch as they continue ransacking the bathroom, stopping briefly to open tampon boxes and shake things around.

“You want to take those, too? Will that help you with your evidence?” I ask sarcastically. Officer Sorento tosses the tampon box back into the cabinet where I watch as it tips over, spilling its contents. He closes the cabinet a little louder than necessary, and then stands up from where he was knelt over on the ground.

“All done in here, Carwile?” he asks his partner.

“Just about,” Officer Carwile responds. “Where to now?”

“Let’s head straight across the hall to the master bedroom. I’m sure my friend Julie here will be happy to show us the way, considering how cooperative she has been so far.” He sends me a smile that reeks of sarcasm. I roll my eyes, getting up from off the toilet. I don’t dare say anything. Technically I have been cooperative so far, I just haven't been nice about it. But I have done everything they have asked and I intend to comply so that they can just be done with this and leave. They step aside as I lead them out of the bathroom and across the hall.

We enter the master bedroom. The bedroom that holds so many memories of my life with Erick. It feels weird to have other people come in here. I stand behind the door, allowing them to enter and close it behind me. I watch silently as they look under the bed and in the closet, absentmindedly pushing aside clothes and checking inside shoe boxes. I watch as Officer Sorento holds my Ugg boots upside down and shakes them around. When nothing comes out of them, he tosses them into the back of the closet instead of returning them to their place in the cubby. I take a deep breath, trying not to get angry as they manhandle my items.

Officer Carwile is slightly better in here as well, placing lids back on boxes and at least looking like he’s trying to put things back where he found them. He slides things aside and slides them back. He looks underneath things and then returns them to their spot. I’m not sure what they think they’re going to find in here, either.

“What’s in this box?” Officer Sorento asks, referring to a cardboard box next to the closet door. He gives the box a firm kick with his boot and then bends down and starts opening the box without waiting for my answer.

“It’s some of Erick’s stuff,” I answer quietly. “Some of his clothes and things like that.”

“Already getting rid of Erick’s things?” Officer Sorento asks, turning around to look at me. The question seems innocent enough, but not the way that he is asking it.

I rack my brain for an appropriate answer as to why a grieving widow would be packing up her husband’s things so quickly after his death.

“I just don’t see a need for them anymore, and I get sad when I look at them. Plus, I want to see if some of his relatives want them after the funeral. It’s not uncommon for people to give away the clothing or items of their loved ones, and since his relatives are mostly coming from out of town, it would be a good idea to give it to them while they are here instead of worrying about shipping it later. Plus, I kind of feel like it’s me sharing the last pieces of Erick with the people who loved him the most.” I am impressed with how quickly I whipped up and delivered that explanation. The reality is that I don't even know which of Erick's relatives are coming to the funeral, and I certainly don't think they'd want any of his stuff.

Officer Sorento nods, but he says nothing. He turns back to what he was doing, and I can’t tell whether he bought my story or not. Based on his reaction, or lack of reaction, I feel proud of the explanation that I was able to pull out on the spot.

Of course, now I will have to follow that up with actually giving away some of Erick’s things. If anyone was going to check up on me to make sure that I did what I said I was going to do, it will be Officer Sorento. My original plan was to give away Erick’s things to Goodwill, but I guess Goodwill is going to get a much smaller donation this year.

After being apparently bored with the items in the box, since they take nothing, Officer Sorento and Officer Carwile both start opening the top drawers of my dresser. I watch as Officer Sorento digs his hands deep into my underwear drawer. He pulls out one of my red lace thongs and holds it up, examining it closely.

“Don’t touch my underwear!” I yell at them, my hands inadvertently balling into fists at my sides.

Officer Sorento starts laughing, which sends me into a rage.

“YOU THINK THIS IS FUNNY?!” I take a step closer to the men. “YOU THINK IT’S FUNNY THAT I LOST MY HUSBAND AND NOW YOU’RE GOING THROUGH MY UNDERWEAR DRAWER AND DISRESPECTING MY HOME AND MY POSSESSIONS?!”

Officer Sorento stops laughing, and his face takes a more serious yet annoyed look. He drops the underwear back into the drawer and turns to face me.

“You need to calm down,” Officer Sorento says calmly.

“YOU WANT ME TO CALM DOWN?! I’LL CALM DOWN WHEN YOU GET YOUR FINGERS OUT OF MY UNDERWEAR DRAWER AND GET OUT OF MY HOUSE!”

I half expect them to reach for their guns based on how crazy I am acting, but they both just stare at me. After a moment of awkward silence, they turn and look at each other.

“Why doesn’t Julie wait downstairs while one of us finishes up in here?” Officer Sorento says, although it doesn’t sound like he’s suggesting anything. It sounds like that is exactly what is going to happen whether I like it or not.

“That sounds like a great idea,” Officer Carwile says. “Julie, let’s have you hang out downstairs. We are almost done in here anyways.”

“You want me to go sit downstairs by myself?” I ask incredulously.

“Unfortunately we can’t have you by yourself,” Officer Carwile explains. “Do you want to sit downstairs with me, or with Officer Sorento?”

“Your choice,” Officer Sorento chimes in unnecessarily.

I huff, looking back and forth between the two of them. I would rather sit with Officer Carwile, but the idea of Officer Sorento going through my underwear drawer makes me want to barf.

“I’ll let you continue what you’re doing,” I say to Officer Carwile, crossing my arms and stomping out of the room.

“Dang, I kind of wanted to tear this place apart,” I hear Officer Sorento say with a chuckle. It takes everything in my power not to turn around and ring his neck. I hear his boots stomp as he quickly follows me back down the stairs. I sit on the couch facing the stairs and sit defiantly while my heart pounds in my chest. I can’t even believe this is happening right now. I don’t know whether my heart pounding is the result of my anger at the officers for violating my personal space, or at the fact that I don’t know what they’re going to find.

Officer Sorento and I say nothing to each other as the minutes pass by. Every so often I can hear drawers opening and closing. It seems that Officer Carwile is trying to be respectful of my things, as opposed to ripping everything apart. I avoid making any kind of eye contact with Officer Sorento, and we sit in awkward silence listening to Officer Carwile. At some point, the rustling noises upstairs stop, and I hear Officer Carwile's boots coming to the edge of the staircase.

“What is this notebook?” Officer Carwile peaks his head out from the top of the stairs. He’s holding a blue spiral book in his hands, and I recognize it immediately as Erick’s therapy journal. My eyes widen in astonishment. I watched Erick burn that with my own two eyes! How could it still exist?

Officer Sorento sees me eyeing the journal. “That mean something to you?” he says, obviously expecting a certain answer.

“That was Erick’s journal from therapy,” I say quietly. I see no reason to hide the answer or pretend that I don’t know.

“Therapy?” Officer Sorento says, looking at me with an accusatory glare. “What kind of therapy?”

“Marriage therapy,” I say quietly. I look up into his eyes and right away I can tell that this doesn’t look good, especially that I didn't tell them about it.

“Funny that you didn’t mention anything about marriage therapy during any of our conversations,” he says, crossing his arms across his chest and staring down at me. Sitting on the couch with this uniformed man standing over me, I’ve never felt smaller in my whole life.

“You didn’t ask me anything about marriage therapy,” I say, providing an explanation that I already know sounds pathetic.

“You two were on the rocks? Is that why you didn’t celebrate your five-year wedding anniversary?” he asks.

“What?! No! That’s not why. Yes, we had our issues but so does every couple! We were working them out in therapy together in order to strengthen our bond. It was actually Erick’s idea!” I can feel myself getting worked up, but it’s because I can feel him starting to not believe me anymore.

“Okay, so what are we going to find in that journal?” He asks.

“I’m not sure. That was one of the rules, that we weren’t allowed to read each other’s journals. We would have assignments kind of like homework, where we’d have to write about our feelings and answer certain prompts given to us by the therapist. It was supposed to help us get our feelings out and also to remind us of our progress and the reasons that we loved each other and that type of thing.” It totally sounds stupid as I explain it to him.

“So, you’re telling me that you never read Erick’s journal and he never read yours?” he asks accusatorily.

“No,” I shake my head back and forth. “I never read his. I didn’t even know that it still existed,” I say. I do not volunteer any further information. I don’t know how that journal still exists when I watched it burn. He must have had a second one that he didn’t tell me about.

Officer Carwile comes down the stairs with the blue spiral notebook in his hands. He has black gloves on and I watch as he stands at the bottom of the stairs, carefully turning pages of the book. I can see from my position on the couch that nearly every page is filled with writing, and I recognize it immediately as Erick’s handwriting.

“May I see that?” I ask.

“Not a chance,” Officer Sorento scoffs, as if I’ve asked the stupidest question in the whole world. “Bag it up, Carwile. We are taking that with us.”

Officer Sorento turns back to me. “You said that you each had to keep journals as part of marriage therapy. Where is yours?”

“I… I… I don’t remember,” I lie to him. He knows I’m lying, and so does Officer Carwile. This is a lie that I just wasn’t prepared for.

“If I have to tear this house apart even more to find it, I will,” Officer Sorento says in a clearly threatening manner. His tone tells me that I should tell him now or live to regret it.

You’re already tearing the house apart, I think to myself. In the moment, I can do nothing but sit and stare stupidly at them.

“Why don’t we try again,” Officer Carwile says, and this time the more mild-mannered officer is the one raising his voice. This is the first time I have seen him so annoyed! “Where is your journal? Tell us. Now.”

My heart is racing, and I can feel my nostrils flare in and out. I know they’re going to find it, but I really really don’t want them to. After spending what feels like an entire minute thinking about what I’m going to do, I decide that I have no choice but to tell them. But I’m certainly not going to make it easy for them.

“I’m not sure exactly where it is, but it must be somewhere in the back of the closet,” I go for a variation of a lie. The truth is that I know exactly where my journal is, and I know exactly what is in it. And it’s going to look bad when they find it. Like… really bad.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

ONE YEAR PRIOR

Julie

Today is our four-year wedding anniversary. As soon as Erick gets back from his doctor’s appointment, we are going to try to go out to dinner for our anniversary. He told me he was going to go see the doctor to get his sperm checked so that we can figure out if that is the issue that is causing us not to get pregnant. I don't even want to think about what he has to do to get the sample, but I guess it's a necessary part of this appointment. I picture him sitting in some more somewhere looking at magazines that a thousand other guys have touched, with pictures of women way hotter than me in them.

I hope the doctor gives him some good news about his sperm count so we can start crossing things off our list and figuring out the mystery of why I’m not pregnant yet. I know it’s not a problem on my end since I got checked. The doctor said my ovaries look good and everything is just fine. We just assumed it was me since there are so many things that can go wrong with a woman’s body to prevent a pregnancy, but it never even occurred to us that it might be Erick who is the problem.

Erick is still investing the money that I got from the advance of my trust fund, and he says it’s not available to use yet. He says it’s locked up in some long-term investments but that the money should be available soon. But if there is anything wrong with his sperm, I think we should get started on fertility treatments sooner rather than later. We’ve already waited so long for this, and my mom thinks we have already started trying the fertility treatments since she expected us to do that right away once we got the money. At this point she is suspicious of what we are using it for since I’m still not pregnant. We told her it was going to go to fertility treatments right away, and every month she calls to check in on me, I know what she's really asking me.

Right now I am scrambling around the house trying to find the phone number for any of Erick’s favorite restaurants. He will expect me to have planned everything and gotten a reservation somewhere. But of course I forgot and didn’t book anywhere. For the last few years we have been going out to dinner for our anniversary. I learned my lesson on our first anniversary- this is a special occasion, and he expects that we will go out to dinner at a decent restaurant where he can pretend to show me off to everyone. He says that’s my duty as his wife.

Finally, I’m able to find the number for a nice Italian restaurant at the next town over, and I book their last available table for two. I start to wonder if maybe these fancy restaurants just pretend to be over-booked to give the illusion of exclusivity. Otherwise how is it possible that all these places are always booked on weeknights? Are there a ton of women who all have to make sure their husband gets a nice anniversary dinner out somewhere? Or are these just regular people having dinner out on a regular night? It better be as fancy and exclusive as they claim it is.

I just hope that Erick will be happy with my choice of restaurant. Lord knows he will tell me if he's not. I know he could just make a reservation somewhere himself where he knows he would want to eat, but he always wants me to do it so that he can tell whether I am putting the effort into this relationship. Sometimes I wonder why he doesn't have to make this kind of effort for me. Last time I asked him that, Erick said that I should do more of the "work" because I make less of the money. He says that he is the financial planner and therefore I need to take care of all his "needs."

Erick will want me to wear a skin-tight dress that shows off my little curves, and with my hair and makeup done up like it's prom night or something. I’m only a little bit behind on that when I hear him walk in the door. I rush to pull the curlers from my hair and I use my fingers to spread out the curls and fluff them up until I have big sexy hair, just like he likes it. Next, I rush to finish my lipstick and mascara. I bound down the stairs to greet Erick before any more time passes and he comes looking for me. I wouldn't want him to see me getting ready at the last minute! Instead, I decide to pretend that I didn't hear him come in the door, so that he doesn't know that I was still getting ready when he walked in.

“Honey! I didn’t expect you home from your doctor appointment so soon. How did it go? How was everything? What did the doctor say?”

“I told you my appointment was at 4:00 and that I’d be going straight from work to the doctor’s office,” he frowns and looks at his watch, then back up at me. “It’s 5:35. What time did you think I was going to be home from a 4:00 appointment? You really expected me later than this?”

“Oh, I guess I must have lost track of my time,” I say, regretting not watching the clock better as I was getting ready. I expect him to yell at me for not being completely ready to go as soon as he walked in the door. Even though I’m mostly put together at this point, I still feel like he must be able to tell that I just finished putting my hair and makeup together in a rush a few moments ago.

“Hmph,” he says, distracted. He says nothing about my hair or makeup. I stand there with my hands on my hips and my breasts pushed out as far as they will go in my low-cut black dress. He does not seem to even notice.

“Well, are you ready to go then?” I ask.

“Ready to go?” He repeats, confused.

“Yes… are you ready to go to dinner?” When his look of confusion does not subside, I add, “For our anniversary?”

“Oh,” he says, frowning. He just stands there silently.

"If you don't want to go out, or you're too tired or something, I can totally cancel the reservation!" I offer quickly. I secretly hope he says no, because it would be a shame to waste this outfit and all the time I spent on my hair and makeup! Someone needs to see me, even if it's not Erick.

“You made a reservation?”

“Yep!” I say proudly. “Our table is at 6:30 p.m. We’re going to a fancy Italian restaurant that we’ve never been to before. It's a couple towns over so I hope you don't mind a little bit of a drive. It’s really nice, and the food is supposed to be amazing. It sounds like there will be a lot of people there too because I got one of their last reservations.”

I cringe, regretting telling him that last part. I don’t want him to know that I waited until the last minute to get a reservation. But if he is bothered by that fact, he doesn’t show it, as all I get in response is a silent nod. If he is in any way bothered by my choice of restaurant, my choice of outfit, or anything else, he is not showing it. His behavior is quite… odd.

Just over an hour later I am sitting across the table from Erick, casually taking tiny bites of a $60.00 chicken parmesan dish. He has been silent for most of the meal, other than small talk. Clearly something is bothering him, but I can’t figure out what it is. I’ve asked if his food is okay, if the temperature is good, if he’s feeling alright. The more he looks upset, the more I try to make him happier by smiling and laughing and being in a bubbly mood. I’ve even gotten up a couple times to go “powder my nose” just so that I can show off my outfit, which normally makes him happy to see me showing off to everyone. But he doesn’t even seem to notice, and nothing I do seems to be working to change his mood.

“Erick…” I say, a more serious tone in my voice, “What’s wrong?” I give him a concerned look that says he better tell me because I am not letting this one go. It seems that he understands that look because he eventually sighs and opens his mouth.

“I have something to tell you,” he says, putting his fork down with a loud clank on his plate. It looks like he has hardly touched his own meal.

“Okay…?” I say, copying the gesture and letting my own fork fall with a clank to the plate. I look straight across the table, giving him my full attention. He’s looking straight at me, yet somehow it seems like he’s looking through me. He starts talking, and it sounds rehearsed.

“I had that doctor appointment today,” he starts.

“Mm hmm?” I nod. He knows that I already know this. My heart starts beating faster as I wait for him to get to the point. Is he about to tell me that his sperm is no good and that we can’t have kids on our own? We knew it was a possibility, but I don’t think I can handle hearing the words out loud.

“The doctor checked all of my levels of everything. They took a blood sample, a semen sample, and ran some tests.” He’s talking like he’s reading off of a textbook as opposed to talking to his wife across the dinner table.

“Right,” I say, nodding. I already know that this is what he was going to have done, so why is he wasting time telling me again? I try to sit patiently, but I just want him to get to the point! “And you aren’t supposed to have the results of those tests for at least a week or so, right?”

“Yes and no. The blood sample was to test for various little things like possible nutrient deficiencies, and the sperm sample is obviously to see how many good swimmers I have. Those test results won’t come back right away. But the doctor also did a physical exam while I was there, and then he asked me to get some scans done. He thinks I might have… well… an illness.” He says the word as if it tastes bad coming out of his mouth.

I frown across the table at him. “What kind of illness?”

He looks serious, but not upset. I can feel my heart rate quickening in my chest.

“The C word,” he says. He picks up his drink and takes a sip of it.

It takes my brain a minute to process what he’s saying. “The C word? Cancer?” I ask. It’s the only word I can manage to get out. If I say any more then my voice will break.

“Yeah, cancer.”

I take a deep breath in and release it out. I don’t even know what to say next. My brain is swirling with thoughts, but I’m not even sure what they are. I kind of feel like I'm going to pass out, or throw up.

“I… I… what kind? How bad is it? What do you know so far?” Once I find my voice, I jump straight to the important questions.

“Testicular cancer,” he says matter-of-factly, “And it’s in an early stage right now. I’ll probably have to do radiation and chemotherapy, but the prognosis is good after that.”

I breathe in and out heavily and deeply. I try to comprehend the words he’s saying.

“Testicular cancer? So maybe that would explain why we haven’t gotten pregnant yet? Did they still see if you have viable sperm?”

He frowns at me, and it seems that a sudden burst of anger washes quickly across his face.

“Is that all you can think about right now? That you want a baby? Not that I have one of the worst diseases known to man?”

“What?! No! I just meant… you said it’s in the early stages… it’s just the first thing I thought about…” I try to explain, but I can see him getting angrier as I explain myself. His nostrils flare in and out.

“I tell you that I have cancer, and your first thought is about you! If there’s something wrong with my testicles then that means that you won’t get your baby anytime soon, is that it?! Is that what you are worried about?! If that’s the case, why don’t you just go have a baby with someone else then!”

His voice is getting progressively louder, and I start to see people around us turning to see what the commotion is about.

I take a deep breath and lower my own voice, hoping to get this conversation back on track for both of us so that we stop making a scene.

“Of course I care about you and your health! That is more important to me than a baby. If you had said you were dying or something then that would be my first priority. But it sounds like if they caught it at an early stage, you’re going to be okay. Is that not true?”

“I have to do radiation and probably chemotherapy,” he says dryly.

“But did the doctor say what the prognosis is? What are all the details? When do you start radiation?”

“I’m going to start radiation next week. Supposedly it’s not that bad, but they want to jump on it before it gets any worse. The doctor said acting quickly would be the best course of action to ensure that it doesn’t spread or get worse.”

“Okay…” I say after a long pause.

“Okay,” he says back. I push my plate to the side and put the napkin from my lap on top of the last few bites of food, signifying that I am done with my meal. Erick does the same. I’m done eating. I have no appetite anymore.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

PRESENT DAY

Julie

Today is Erick’s funeral. I’m lucky that they gave us Erick’s body back in time. The autopsy was already completed, but I guess they send some samples to pathology and then they have to have somebody interpret all the results and all of that scientific stuff. So they gave us Erick’s body back for the funeral since they are done cutting into him and testing him, but I won’t have the complete results of the autopsy for a little while longer.

I spent the entire weekend thinking that the police were going to show up and arrest me. So far, they haven’t. But ever since they took our journals from my house, I’ve been terrified of what they are going to find in them. I’m terrified of them reading Erick’s journal because I don’t know what he wrote in it. I’m terrified of them reading my journal for the exact opposite reason. I do know what they are going to find in it, and it’s not going to look good.

But I can’t think about that right now. Right now I have to put on a happy widow face for all the people who came to Erick’s funeral. It is insane to me how many people showed up to this thing. I don’t even think I recognize some of these people. Are they coworkers? Friends he never told me about? Distant relatives? Random strangers on the internet with nothing better to do? People looking for an estate sale or hoping to steal something from his casket before they lower it into the ground? I guess it doesn’t really matter at this point. I’m just surprised that this many people would want to mourn Erick.

I’m supposed to be entertaining people at a reception next to the place where the funeral service was held, but I told people that I wanted some time alone with Erick’s body. That's not entirely the truth. The truth is that I just wanted some peace and quiet.

So now I’m standing in a side room with the coffin. We had an open casket funeral, with Erick’s body on full display. They put him in a nice suit that covers what is presumably a cut-up torso. I imagine it’s like the movies where the dead bodies always have a Y-shaped cut down the torso where the chest cavity was cut into. From there they probably pulled out his organs and poked them, or whatever they do during an autopsy, and then put them back inside his chest cavity in maybe the same order. They probably don't care about putting them back exactly right considering he's not using them anymore. The thought almost makes me chuckle.

During the service, I almost rolled my eyes at how everyone acted as they went one by one looking at him lying in the casket. But now it’s just me and him, and I don’t pretend to be sad. I don’t have to since no one is here to judge me right now. I'm no longer a grieving widow on display. Having to cry during basically the whole ceremony was exhausting, and I'm pretty sure I have no more tears left. I haven't even had anything to eat or drink today, so I'm sure I couldn't even produce more tears even if I tried.

I spend approximately two minutes staring at Erick's body in silence, half expecting him to leap out of the casket and strangle me. I am still reflecting on how the service went when a familiar voice behind interrupts me.

“May I join you?” The voice of my mom rings out. I whip around in surprise at the sudden sound. She sat next to me during the service, but we hardly spoke to each other. All I could think about was how she looks in her dress. She is wearing a skin-tight black lace dress that shows off her figure. I am shocked that this is my mother's choice of outfit for a funeral, but she always did like all eyes on her.

“Sure, you can join me,” I say, turning back to look at Erick. I would rather look at my dead husband than look at my mom right now. She cried through the whole service and made the whole thing about her. At least she’s not crying right now, probably since there’s no one here to see her put on a show.

We both stare silently at Erick as he lays motionless in the crappy wood coffin that I picked out for him. I half expect my mom to make a comment about how bad the coffin is, and to give me a lecture about how I should have done more for my husband. But she says nothing about it.

Eventually, she lets out a dramatic sigh.

“All that money wasted,” she says quietly, shaking her head back and forth.

I turn my entire body to face her direction. “What are you talking about?” I ask.

Her cheeks turn a slight pink color. “I just mean… if we had known this was going to happen, then maybe you wouldn’t have used up a chunk of your trust fund money on fertility treatments…” I can sense somewhat of an amount of regret in her voice as the words tumble out of her mouth, but she does nothing to take them back.

I blink back tears, not sure if they are tears of hatred or tears of sadness, or both.

“This is about money to you?” I ask as calmly as possible, but inside I am fuming with anger.

“Of course not! But I just mean… you’re going to have to start over now anyways.”

“To start over?” My lips are quivering at this point. I know exactly what she means, but I’m going to make her say the words out loud. If she wants to start this conversation, then I’m going to make her regret it.

“To start over with a new husband!” She says, exasperated. “All that money spent on fertility treatments that didn’t even work, on a person who wasn’t even worthy.” This time it is my mom who has tears in her eyes, but I have trouble finding any sympathy for them.

“If you didn’t think he was worthy then why did you say nothing on the day that we got married? Why were you trying to force us to have children? Your grandchildren?!” I am fuming at this point.

“He wasn’t what I would have chosen for you, but he wasn’t terrible!” She says defensively, as if that answer makes everything all better, “You probably weren’t going to find someone else in time to have kids, and it wasn’t like he was the most awful person in the world! He was fine! You just needed to stop messing around and get serious about having kids! I can’t believe the fertility treatments didn’t work! You two would have made beautiful children. How much exactly did you spend of the money? And how much is left?”

My nostrils flare in and out as I listen to her reduce my entire being to nothing more than the wife of an okay guy who was maybe going to have children with me one day.

I want to say something that hurts her. Something that really hurts her. I open my mouth and the words tumble out before my brain even has a chance to filter them.

“We never spent the money on fertility treatments,” I say as calmly as possible. I watch her face as the words I'm saying sink in to her brain.

She blinks at me for a moment and then her mouth falls open as she registers the words. “Why would you say something like that?”

“Because it’s true!” I say, louder this time. I'm not sure if anyone in the funeral home next door can hear us, but I honestly really don’t care if they can at this point. If my mom wanted a show, then she can have one for all I care.

“No, it’s not,” my mom shakes her head defiantly back and forth, frowning. “That’s not true. Don’t say things that aren’t true.”

“It’s true! All of it is true! This perfectly adequate husband of mine was nothing more than an abuser who spent all of our money! We never spent a dime of it on fertility treatments! Erick spent it all!”

My mom’s tears quickly turn to something that I recognize easily- anger.

“You better watch that lying mouth of yours before it gets you into trouble. If you don’t stop with this nonsense then someone might actually think that you’re serious!”

With that, she turns and stomps out of the room, leaving me alone with Erick’s casket.

My chest falls quickly up and down as I try to catch my breath. It doesn’t even matter that she doesn’t know what really happened to the money. The fact that she could even say something like that makes it clear that she is dead to me. After this funeral, I’m cutting her out of my life forever.

Just as I start to contemplate all the ways in which I am going to potentially seek revenge on my mom, I am startled by the appearance of officers Carwile and Sorento in the doorway. Luckily, I’m alone with Erick’s coffin and there are tears running down my face, so I look like the perfect sad widow without even having to put on an act. They really came at the perfect time.

“Oh… hello, officers,” I sniffle dramatically, adding an extra layer to my grieving widow act just in case the tears aren’t enough. “It is so nice of you to attend the funeral and pay your respects to Erick. I really appreciate it.”

The two men look at each other and then back at me. I try to read their facial expressions to see if they are buying this, but they both appear to have a poker face. It’s almost as if they are silently deciding amongst themselves which one of them is going to respond to me, and based on their reaction, neither one wants to.

“That’s not exactly why we’re here,” Officer Carwile speaks up. He clears his throat dramatically as if he’s about to sing the national anthem at the start of a baseball game. “Will you come over here, please?” He beckons to the side of the room furthest away from Erick’s casket.

I walk over to them hesitantly, taking one shaky step after another. My heels click with each shaking step on the hardwood floor of the room, and I hear small echos ring out in the mostly empty room.

Officer Sorento smirks at me like he’s just beat me in a poker game. I want to smack the grin right off his stupid face. I wait to see what he could possibly be smirking about.

“Julie Miller, you are under arrest for the murder of Erick Miller.”

The words are like a slap to my brain, and it takes a minute to process what he just said. I stare silently at him, not making a peep. I still can't process what he just said.

“What are you talking about?!” I ask, but there’s no response.

Officer Sorento grabs my shaking arm and places it behind my back while Officer Carwile snaps the cuffs into place. My mind blanks out as they read me my Miranda rights.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

NINE MONTHS PRIOR

Julie

“How was your session today?” I ask as Erick walks in the door. He has been having regular chemotherapy treatments for a few months now. I’m not sure how much longer he is going to need. He doesn’t really tell me much, other than he has appointments a couple times per week and they last about an hour or two each time. With the drive time to and from, he’s usually gone for a few hours.

When he scheduled the first session, I wanted to go with and support him, but he made it clear that I was not welcome to attend. He said it was the man’s job to be strong, and having me see him weak would not fulfill his purpose in our marriage. I told him I didn’t agree with any of that and that I was happy to be there for him, but he wouldn’t hear it. So now I just wait for him to come home from his sessions twice per week and get absolutely no useful information from him. Sometimes it is nice to be home alone for a few hours, though! But having him walk in the door grumpy each time is the downside.

“You’re asking me how my cancer treatment was? It was super great, I had a fantastic time. Ten out of ten, could not have been better!” He says sarcastically, rolling his eyes. I know I can’t possibly understand what he is going through, so I choose to ignore the rudeness in his comment.

“Is there anything I can do to make it better?” I look at how skinny he has gotten in just a few short months. He wasn't fat before, but he definitely could afford to lose his slowly forming beer belly. Now it looks like he is down at least ten or fifteen pounds. “Do you want me to cook you something for dinner? Do you want me to order something for delivery? Do you want me to make you a smoothie?”

“I want you to stop nagging me so that I can go lay down!” He snaps back. He reaches up to close his eyes and rub his temples. His skin goes pale and he wavers back and forth. For a moment I think he’s going to pass out.

“Erick,” I say, putting my hand gently on his arm. It’s as if this movement wakes him up from a trance, and his eyes shoot open when he feels my hand on his arm.

“I don’t want to be touched right now!” he says quickly. He pushes my arm away with his right hand and uses his other hand to elbow me across the chest. My body falls backwards at the sudden motion, and I trip over my shoes and fall to the ground with a big thump on my rear end. I look up at Erick, eyes wide in surprise.

He looks angry for a moment, but then his expression softens. “I’m sorry, I’m just not feeling well right now. But I wish you would do a better job of knowing my needs!”

I pull myself from the ground and instinctively reach to dust off my rear end.

“I don’t know why you’re always so mad at me all the time!” I say, holding back the tears that beg to escape from my eyes. “I’m just trying to help you! I’m trying to work through this with you! I’m your wife after all!” I rub my sore rear end. My heart is racing from the sudden movement, and I wait to see if he does anything else.

He sighs and is quiet for a minute, staring at the wall with no emotion.

“Why don’t we try therapy?” He says, breaking the silence.

“Therapy?” I frown at him.

“Yeah, like marriage therapy. Maybe we should try it.”

I stare at him for a full minute to figure out whether he might be joking or not. It does not appear that he is joking.

“You think we should go to therapy? Why would we need therapy?”

“Well I don’t think that we need therapy,” Erick says pointedly. “But if we are going to have constant problems then maybe you could benefit from talking it out with a professional so we can figure out the best way to move forward in this relationship.”

This conversation takes me totally by surprise. I had thought maybe he wanted to abandon the relationship, not work on it.

“So you want me to tell the most intimate details of our life to a stranger?” I ask incredulously. Erick has never been the therapy type, so I am shocked to hear these things coming out of his mouth. I have no idea what he is thinking!

“I mean if you don’t want to work on our marriage then fine. I just thought it could help.” Erick frowns, glaring at me.

“No… I… of course it could help,” I stammer. I don’t want him to think that I’m just ignoring his ideas or that I’m not willing to try. “I guess it couldn’t hurt to try it out. Let’s do it.”

Erick grins broadly. “Great! I already found a company that works with our insurance, and they have evening hours so we could go after we both get off work.”

“Oh, you already found a place?” I frown at him again. This is all just completely out of character for him. Normally Erick would expect me to do all the work for him, but apparently he has already been thinking about this and has already done the work of checking with insurance and things like that. I'm surprised that he even put in the work to do that in the first place, much less find a place to commit to without having me do anything.

“It’s going to be great!” Erick grins. “We have an appointment on Thursday at 6:30 p.m.”

“Oh… you already made an appointment?” My eyebrows furrow at him. “Without talking about it with me first?”

“What’s the big deal?” Erick says, annoyed. “You just said we can try it out. I called and arranged the whole thing and made the appointment for us.”

“Yes, but you already found somewhere and made an appointment? That just seems so… not like you.”

“Well, then, I guess you don’t know me very well. Maybe that’s something we can work on in therapy,” he says pointedly. His message is clear: Get on board or jump off the ship.

“Okay,” I concede, “Let’s go to the therapy appointment on Thursday at 6:30 p.m. Where did you find this therapist anyways?”

“I found her online.”

“Great,” I say.

“Great.”

We stare at each other for a minute, neither of us wanting to be the first one to pull away from the conversation.

“I think we should drive there separately,” he says abruptly. I frown, taken aback by the comment.

“Why would we drive separately to marriage therapy? Surely we should be working on being a unit, not being two separate entities.”

“I think it will give both of us some time to be alone with our thoughts on the way there and on the way back, so that we can be level headed.”

It sounds like he’s reading off of a fortune cookie. I have literally no idea what he is talking about or where he got all of this from. This just doesn't sound like Erick at all. But maybe this is because he's changing for the better? Maybe having cancer was enough to have him get his act together and realize that he needs to start working on himself? Who knows. Maybe I should just be open to the idea and get on board with it and just see what happens.

“Okay, we can drive separately,” is all I can manage to say to him. And with that, I break the eye contact and exit the room.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

NINE MONTHS PRIOR

Julie

Today we are going to see the marriage therapist that Erick found. Her name is Dr. Nora Roberts, but apparently she goes by Dr. Nora. Erick thinks Dr. Nora is going to help save our marriage. At this point, I’m open to anything.

I am still actually shocked that Erick took the initiative to research therapists and schedule an appointment. Normally I am the one who does everything for the household. Erick is a typical man who would forget to pay his bills if I didn’t write the dang checks for him. I don’t even think he has ever scheduled his own doctor appointments up until this year. He must really want to work on things if he went to all this trouble to research options and schedule the appointment.

We had decided to drive together after all, because Erick said it would be better to save gas money. It wasn’t because he wanted us to go together to our marriage therapy, it was just because he wanted to save the few dollars in gas. We are probably not off to a good start on this marriage therapy already. We were completely silent on the drive over to the office, but now we are sitting in the parking lot of a business building just on the outskirts of town.

“Is it weird that a therapist provides therapy sessions at nighttime?” I ask.

“Why would that be weird? A lot of people have jobs, just like us, so they cater to the schedules of working professionals.” He says it as though I should have known this information already. I shrug it off and adjust my hair. I put makeup on to come here but I’m not sure why. It’s not like I’m trying to impress our therapist. But I guess I really kind of am. I don't know why I care so much, but I guess it's just that I don't want her to think that I'm crazy!

“Dr. Nora is going to help us,” Erick continues. “It sounds like she’s the best in the business. We should be so lucky that she had a cancellation today and could fit us in so quickly.”

“If you say so,” I say. Erick gives me a look as if I’m the one being condescending, but I shrug it off again and ignore his expressions.

I look up at the big business building in front of us. It looks so… boring. Almost like a warehouse. I must have passed by this building at least a hundred times in the time that I have lived in this town, but didn’t realize there were any medical offices in it.

Erick surprises me by coming up next to me and taking my hand in his. I look down at our intertwined fingers and then up at his face, confused.

“Gotta make it look like we aren’t that bad to the therapist lady,” Erick explains, even though I'm sure the therapist has seen much worse than us. I thought we were supposed to be honest with therapists and paint a true picture of our relationship to them, but I guess that's not what Erick is thinking.

Of course he wants to look good for our therapist, even though that’s the whole point of therapy is that we have problems, I think to myself.

The sun sets behind us as we make our way up the narrow walkway to the front of the building. There are doors outside the building, almost like a motel, and a central door that presumably leads to the middle of the building. I can’t help but notice that this place has a distinct musty smell and could use a serious coat of paint.

“She said the door would be unlocked,” he says as we reach the end of the walkway. Sure enough, he pulls on the door and it opens, revealing an inner hallway.

“It’s pitch black in here! Don’t they ever leave any lights on in this building?” I ask, annoyed. I squint as we take a step into the dungy hallway.

Erick seems to know where he’s going as he guides me down each twist and turn of the dark building. Finally we reach a door with a dull light peeking out from underneath it. Erick knocks twice and then opens the door without waiting for a response.

We enter a small reception room with a desk on one side of the room, a door in the middle, and some chairs strewn around the other side of the room. There’s nothing special about it at all, and it could desperately use some wall artwork, even the terrible kind that I remember from the dentist office when I was a kid. Anyth ing would be better than these blank walls.

Just as I’m about to look for a little bell to ring to get someone’s attention, a face pops out from behind the wall next to the desk.

“Hi! You must be Erick and Julie! I’ll be right around to let you in!”

The face disappears as fast as it came out. I look at Erick and he smiles back at me reassuringly. He doesn’t seem to notice that this place looks like it popped out of the 1980’s. A moment later the door flings open, and the woman’s peppy voice greets us.

“Come on in! I’ll show you to my office!”

I stop in my tracks and look at Dr. Nora. She has this long gorgeous blonde hair that looks incredibly soft, and she has it pulled into a loose ponytail on the nape of her neck. Her eyelashes are so long they look like spiders, making her blue eyes look even bigger. She smiles at us and her teeth almost look fake, they are so straight and nice.

I don’t know why I assumed a marriage therapist was going to be an old lady. I guess that's just what I've seen on television. But Dr. Nora is far from an old lady; she looks like she could be younger than me! She reaches out to shake my hand and I instinctively take it, then she takes Erick’s and shakes it. She holds on for just a little longer with his handshake than she had with mine. Or maybe I’m imagining it. But I look over at Erick and he’s grinning like he just saw boobs for the first time. I can tell that he finds Dr. Nora attractive, and it's irritating.

Dr. Nora leads us into the back where there are rows of cubicles and offices. We eventually stop at one of the office doors and she leads us in to a room that is equally as boring as the reception area had been. There’s a large desk in the center of the room with two chairs on the opposite side, plus a big empty book shelf. The room has no window, so I deduce that it must be an inner office. I got so turned around on the way in here that I don’t even know which direction is the exit of the building anyways.

“Sorry about the mess!” Dr. Nora says. “I just moved to this office. I used to be a few towns over.”

There isn’t actually any mess, just a few boxes of papers scattered throughout the room, but I feel like that’s just what people say when they are being self-deprecating.

“No problem, it looks fine,” I say, trying to be positive. I give her a small smile in the hopes that it will make me look more like I actually want to be here.

“Have a seat on the couch,” she beckons towards the old dirty futon. Erick and I sit down instinctively, and I swear I can see a cloud of dust come up from next to our bottoms as we sit. Gross.

“So!” She says chipperly. “What brings you in today? Let’s just start at the beginning,” she says, grabbing a notepad and putting on a pair of rimmed glasses that almost look like they came from a Halloween costume.

“Well, we have been married for a little over four years,” Erick starts.

“That’s great!” Dr. Nora exclaims, a little too excitedly. “Four years, that’s pretty good.” She nods enthusiastically and leans in to listen to Erick, as if he’s saying something exciting and she’s hanging on every word.

“Yes, four years is pretty good. But we’ve been fighting a lot.”

Dr. Nora nods her head and starts jotting something down on her notepad. “What exactly have you been fighting about?”

“Well…” Erick takes a deep, dramatic breath. “I recently found out that I’m sick, and I just feel like I need more support at home!” I look over just in time to see a tear roll out of Erick’s eye and down his cheek. I blink twice, looking at his face. I don’t think I’ve ever seen Erick cry before.

“There there, you poor thing!” Dr. Nora says, reaching out her hand and squeezing his arm gently. Dr. Nora then turns her attention towards me. It’s hard to read her, but it looks like she’s scowling.

“Julie, do you hear Erick saying that he needs more support at home?” Dr. Nora says, looking at me over the rim of her glasses.

“I… I… I am supportive at home!” I say defensively. I can’t even believe what I’m hearing. Is he really trying to pull the sick card right now?

Dr. Nora turns back to Erick. “Is that how you feel? That Julie is supportive at home?”

“No!” Erick starts sobbing intently. I am so taken aback by his sudden outburst that I just stare at him while he cries. I’m sure that isn’t helping my street credibility with Dr. Nora, but it is what it is. She must be able to read through his bullshit, right?

“I… I…” I start to stammer, but I’m interrupted by Dr. Nora.

“What kind of illness do you have, and how is Julie not supporting you enough?” Dr. Nora poses her pen on top of the notepad again.

“I found out that I have cancer,” Erick says between sniffs.

"Oh my! You poor thing," Dr. Nora frowns sympathetically at him while he continues.

“And it’s still early so we don’t know a lot of information. But I haven’t been feeling supported by my wife. She doesn’t even come to my doctor appointments!”

My jaw drops open in astonishment. I don’t even have any words for what I’ve just heard.

“That’s not true!” I manage to sputter out, but I can’t make my brain form any other words to explain myself.

“So, you have gone to his doctor appointments?” Dr. Nora asks. She bends her head down and looks at me over the rim of her glasses.

“Well, no, but-” I begin to taper off.

“Okay, well then what he’s saying is true,” Dr. Nora says, giving me a look of disapproval. "It's important to be truthful in here. This is a safe space."

“That’s technically true, but-” I start to say before I’m cut off again.

“Okay well it doesn’t really matter the reason, now does it. The reality is that marriages are hard work, and they are give and take. What I’m hearing is that Erick feels unsupported by you, his wife. Relationships are about making the other person feel loved and supported. So from now on, we are going to try being supportive. Right, Julie?”

I don’t even have words. She stares at me for so long that it feels like she is drilling a hole through my head.

“Okay,” I mumble. It doesn’t seem like there is any use to argue with her.

“Great!” Dr. Nora says enthusiastically. “Now once both parties are feeling supported by the other, then we can finally start to move the relationship forward. You hear that, Erick? Julie is going to try her best to be more supportive.”

“Sounds good to me!” Erick says, a fake smile plastered across his face. It makes me sick that she is agreeing with him. But if I try to speak out again, then Dr. Nora will just think that I’m being defensive which probably doesn’t look good. I don’t know why I’m trying so hard to impress her anyways, but for some reason it seems weirdly important to impress the therapist.

“Now, you two are going to have some homework,” Dr. Nora continues. She reaches into her drawer and pulls out two spiral-bound notebooks- one blue and one pink. They remind me of the ones that I had in elementary school. She hands the blue one to Erick and the pink one to me.

“You’re going to start keeping these journals and writing in them often.”

“Okay…?” I say, opening the journal and flipping through the empty pages. Erick does the same thing next to me.

“There are some rules to these journals,” Dr. Nora continues, “and you must agree to follow all the rules or the exercise won’t work. Do you agree to follow all the rules?”

Erick and I stare at each other, and then back at her.

“I guess we agree to the rules,” Erick says, deciding for us.

“Yeah, what are the rules?” I prompt her. This is certainly the most unusual type of therapy that I have ever heard of. But now that I think about it, I haven’t ever been to therapy before so I guess I wouldn’t really know if this is normal or not.

“Rule number one is that you can’t read each other’s journals. Ever. No exceptions.”

I frown at her. “But isn’t that the point of marriage therapy? Aren’t we supposed to be communicating and sharing our feelings with each other and all of that?”

“You can still communicate with each other and share your feelings with each other, but you’re not going to read each other’s private thoughts. These are just for yourselves. It's important to have a safe space where you can truly write out your emotions without the fear of judgment.”

“Okay…” I say, still not sure what the point is. If no one is going to read the words, then why bother? Is it really going to help me to write down nice things about Erick in this pink journal?

“Rule number two is that these are positivity journals only. No negative thoughts. Any time you feel frustrated by something your spouse is doing, you’re not going to write it down.”

I frown at her. “Doesn’t that defeat the whole purpose?” I ask.

She sighs at me as if I'm a small child who keeps asking dumb questions. “Instead of writing down the negative things that you are frustrated by, you’re going to write down all the positive things instead. For example, if your partner makes a mess while cooking and doesn’t clean it up, you can write in the book how grateful you are to have such an involved partner who went out of their way to cook you something.”

As if Erick would ever cook for me, I think to myself.

“Does that make sense?” Dr. Nora prompts me, as if reading my mind.

“Yes, I guess so,” I say. I turn the pink book over back and forth in my hands, staring at it so that it will give me something else to do instead of looking at Dr. Nora.

“Does that make sense to you, Erick?” Dr. Nora turns and smiles at him.

“Sure! Sounds good to me,” he says, grinning again. “Thank you so much for recommending this to us. I can see how this is going to have a positive impact on our mental states as we navigate these difficult waters together.”

Dr. Nora smiles at him, and I almost want to vomit onto her shoes. It sounds like Erick read that off of the back of a self-help book and just regurgitated it now. He has never said nonsense like that before. I didn't even know that he was capable of such language.

“Will you be reading these journals?” I ask Dr. Nora.

“That’s a great question,” Dr. Nora says. “My hope is that your writing will not change regardless of whether my answer to that question is a yes or no.”

“What do you mean?” I frown at her.

“I mean, if I say yes I will read them, then are you going to write differently than if you knew I was not going to read it?”

I think about that for a moment. “I mean, I guess I would probably write slightly differently if I knew someone was going to read it. But I’ll try not to do that.”

“Well, I’m going to take the exercise seriously,” Erick says to Dr. Nora. “I’m going to write down all of my thoughts and feelings and really open up about things, regardless of whether someone is reading it or not. I want this exercise to help. You can feel free to read mine if you want to.”

Dr. Nora looks at him, beaming. “Thank you, Erick! So glad to hear that.”

“I didn’t mean that I wouldn’t take it seriously,” I jump in to defend myself, “I just meant that-”

“It’s okay, I know what you meant,” Dr. Nora interrupts me, cutting off my sentence. I’m not entirely sure that she did know what I meant, but I keep my mouth shut nonetheless since she obviously does not want to hear anything that I have to say.

“There’s just one more rule,” Dr. Nora says, looking back and forth from each of us.

“What’s that?” I ask.

“Don’t write about Erick’s diagnosis in your journals.”

I pause for a moment, wondering if I heard her right. “Don’t write about Erick’s cancer diagnosis? Why not? That has been a big source of recent conflict in our relationship!” I bite my tongue before I can say any more. But I’m shocked that this doctor thinks it would be a good idea to not talk about the one massive issue causing tension in our lives right now.

“Erick is more than just his diagnosis. The medical problems don’t define him. For these journal exercises, I want you to focus on the relationship between you and Erick. So don’t mention the diagnosis, got it?”

I nod at her even though I still don’t understand why it shouldn’t be mentioned.

“Yes, we understand, thank you Dr. Nora!” Erick beams at her like she’s some sort of celebrity.

“Well, I think we have made progress already this session!” Dr. Nora beams.

“Definitely! I feel better already,” Erick grins at her.

I smile back quietly but can’t bring myself to say anything. I have a feeling that marriage therapy is going to be the worst thing that has ever happened to us.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

PRESENT DAY

Julie

The process of getting booked into the jail was a total blur, and I tried to block it out of my mind while it was happening. They took me in the back of the police car all the way to the county jail where I was officially booked. They took my mug shot, my fingerprints, and searched all the orifices of my body, and I do mean all the orifices. And they wouldn't even let me see if I took a cute mug shot or not.

Now I’m sitting in an ugly orange jumpsuit in an interrogation room. It’s bad enough that the police arrested me, but now they want to continue their obnoxious questioning.

Officer Carwile and Officer Sorento come into the room and sit down across from me. I wonder if there are any other officers who work for the Springville Valley Police Department, because so far I’m just seeing a lot of these two faces.

“We’re the officers assigned to your case,” Officer Carwile explains, as if reading my mind.

“So I have a case,” I say, glaring at them. They seemingly ignore me.

“Before we get started, Julie, I need to remind you that you have the right to have an attorney present for all questioning. You have the right to remain silent and not talk to us. Do you still understand these rights?”

I nod at him.

“A verbal confirmation would be nice,” Officer Sorento says, sucking his tooth and causing the most obnoxious sound I can imagine a human making.

“Yes, I understand,” I say defiantly.

"Did you understand your Miranda rights when I read them to you?" He asks.

"Yes."

“And you still want to talk to us voluntarily?” Officer Carwile asks.

“Yes,” I say pointedly in Officer Sorento’s direction. “Yes, I'll waive whatever you want, I have nothing to hide.”

This was all part of the plan, too. Erick told me that the police might want to question me about his death just because no one else knew about the cancer and it might seem sudden to them. But Erick always told me that I should talk to the police because it’s more suspicious not to talk to the police. He said as long as I can keep my story straight I will be fine. Of course I hadn’t anticipated actually being arrested for murder. I take a couple deep breaths and prepare myself for the questioning. I've been practicing for this and I know that I can do this.

Officer Sorento holds up a blue item in his right hand, and I recognize it immediately as Erick’s journal. His left hand holds a pink item which I recognize as my journal.

“You know Julie, there were some very interesting entries in your journal,” Officer Sorento says, tossing the book onto the table with a loud slap. “But some of my favorites were in Erick’s journal. You know what I mean?”

“Actually, I don’t know what you mean. I’ve never read it. Now am I allowed to know what was in Erick’s journal?” I ask them, crossing my arms across my chest. “I was his wife after all, and his personal items belong to me. Whatever it says is just random thoughts that we were supposed to write for our therapy sessions, so I don’t see what the big deal is.”

“You’re still maintaining that you have no idea what is in Erick’s journal?” Officer Sorento asks me pointedly.

“Yes! I have no idea. I thought he got rid of it!” I am exasperated at this point. I just want them to tell me what’s in the dang book.

“Why don’t I go ahead and read you some entries from your journal,” Officer Sorento says with a smirk on his face. “Officer Carwile can read some from Erick’s journal. We’ll take turns.” He leans back in the chair and puts his feet up on the table. I am appalled looking at the bottom of his dirty boots on the table, but I say nothing.

Officer Carwile looks unfriendly towards me for the first time since I’ve known him. He crosses his arms across his chest and glares at me. The pink journal sits intimidatingly on the desk in front of him. I can feel my heart rate quickening, and I hang on every word that they are saying.

“Yeah, some of the entries are… enlightening,” Officer Sorento says. “I have copies here and I’ll go ahead and read you some of my favorites.

Dr. Nora told me that I’m supposed to write positive things in this book, but I have literally nothing positive to say about Erick right now. The truth is that I wish he would die. He adds nothing of value to my life. I don’t even care if she reads this and gets mad at me for not saying positive things about him. I can’t think of any. I don’t know what else to say for my first journal entry other than I wish that he was dead.

I wish that he was dead.

I wish that he was dead.

I wish that he was dead.”

I can feel the blood drain from my face as I listen to Officer Sorento read my very first journal entry. I wrote it after we got home from that first marriage therapy session nine months ago. Erick and I had argued the whole way home because I got mad about how he acted during the session, and how he tried to make me out to be the bad guy. Eventually it got so heated that I asked Erick to pull over so that I could get out and walk the rest of the way home. But when Erick had pulled over, he let me unbuckle my seatbelt and open the door, only to floor the gas pedal and then slam on the brakes again, causing me to smash my head against the dashboard. Erick had laughed and I road the rest of the way home with a headache. After he went to bed that night, I went to the kitchen and wrote the very first entry in my journal, the one that the police have now stumbled upon.

As I sit here in my orange jumpsuit, hands shackled to the underside of the table, I wonder if there is any chance the officers would believe me if I told them what happened. They are staring at me as if they expect me to say something.

“I wish that he was dead,” Officer Sorento reads the line to me again. And then he repeats it again before slamming the journal shut and looking back up at me.

“You wish he was dead?” He asks me, but I can tell it’s not really a question.

“Listen, I wrote some bad things during a time that I was mad at him,” I say, trying not to lose my cool. The last thing I need to do is act crazy and defensive and make myself look even more guilty than I already look. “Every couple has arguments.”

They both just stare at me, not speaking. For a moment I wonder if this is one of those police tricks where they try to get the person talking so that they spill more details. If it is one of those tricks, I don’t want to give them too many details.

“I… I… I wrote that when I was mad,” I explain again, and it sounds just as dumb coming out of my mouth the second time around.

“Mad about what?” Officer Sorento asks.

I feel trapped. I have to tell them the truth, or I won’t have a good excuse for writing that.

“Erick was abusive,” I say. It feels good to let the words out of my mouth, but it also feels terrifying as they stare at me. I've heard all these stories of women not being believed when they speak up about abuse, and having it look even worse for them. But I’m already behind bars, so what do I have to lose? Now is the time for trying the Hail Mary pass. But I’m not going to give any details, I’m just going to give them the vague information and hope it’s enough.

They both sit for a moment, staring at me. If they had any reaction to that, it isn’t evident to me.

“It’s interesting that you didn’t mention any abuse in any of our prior conversations,” Officer Carwile jumps into the conversation.

“I didn’t think you would believe me,” I say truthfully. It's interesting that this is the part of the story that is actually true, and yet this is where the officers are giving me the most pushback.

“Why wouldn’t we believe you?” Officer Sorento asks, but with a hint of sarcasm in his voice, as if he already doesn’t believe me.

“You’ve been after me from the beginning!” I can hear my voice start to shake as real tears threaten to fall from my eyes.

“Save the grieving widow act,” Officer Sorento snaps at me. “Officer Carwile, why don’t you do the honors on reading an entry from Erick’s journal?”

He passes the blue journal over and Officer Carwile carefully flips it open to a tabbed page. I gulp nervously as he begins to read.

“I think Julie is trying to kill me. Lately she has been insisting on making me coffee in the mornings even though she never did that before. And she keeps telling me that I need to bulk up, and that I’m looking weak and pathetic, and that I need to gain some muscle. She got this new chocolate protein powder that she says I need to eat, and she has been putting a scoop in my coffee every morning.

The problem is that I’m beginning to wonder what is actually in this protein powder. I always feel so gross after I eat it. Last week I barely made it to the bathroom in time. I’ve actually been losing weight because I have to run to the bathroom every time I eat the stuff, and it totally ruins my appetite for the rest of the day.

But I’ve tried to mention this to Julie, and she just tells me to stop being such a little bitch and to just drink it. I have to wonder why she wants me to drink it when she knows how sick it makes me. Does she really want me to lose weight that bad? Does she really think I’m so fat?”

Officer Carwile looks back up at me after he finishes reading the entry. I am in absolute disbelief at what I’ve just heard.

“I’ve never given him protein powder!” I say, exasperated. “That’s not true!”

"Oh really? So I guess that tub of protein powder that we found in your house didn't contain laxatives and toxic chemicals? You want to tell me again that you weren't trying to kill Erick?"

I stare at them, shocked. "The protein powder had what in it?!"

“But wait, it gets better!” Officer Sorento says. “Please read the next tabbed entry, Carwile.”

“With pleasure,” he says, pulling the journal to the next noted page. He starts reading aloud before I can even say anything.

“Today I’m going to shave my head. I don’t want to do it, but it will give Julie one less thing to use to hurt me. She keeps making snide comments about the fact that I’m going bald. It’s bad enough that I get shit for it from the guys at work, even though they mean it as a joke, but then I have to come home and have my own wife insult me. I’m just going to shave it all off. I’m sure it will make Julie mad and she’ll make me sleep on the couch again, but at least she won’t be able to make comments about my receding hairline anymore because I won’t have a hairline at all.”

I almost snort with laughter once the officer is done.

“That’s absurd! I never made comments about his hair! He lost it about six months ago from the treatment!”

Officer Sorento glares at me like he doesn’t believe anything I’m saying. “You can be quiet now. We’re not going to read you everything because I'm sure it will be read aloud at your murder trial, but we've got one really good one left. I think this one is my favorite. So be quiet and listen.”

Officer Carwile clears his throat and continues as I swallow hard. My mouth has never felt so dry, and my head starts to throb.

“Julie keeps threatening to kill me if I leave her! I’m genuinely starting to get a little scared. All the anger outbursts and threats are really starting to take a toll on me. She’s controlling everything I eat and everything that I do. I don’t know what to do anymore. I keep trying to say and do things to make her happy but she’s just so angry all the time! I keep hoping that things will get better.

Today I actually searched for battered men’s shelters on the internet. I know that they exist for women so I hoped to find some for men, too. There really aren’t any good options nearby for men which is disappointing. Surely I can’t be the only man with an abusive wife? If the shelter is not an option then I need a different plan. I desperately need an exit strategy from this situation before she makes good on her threats.”

My jaw is practically on the ground at this point. “That… that… that’s not true! None of that is true!” I exclaim.

“Well, we took the liberty of getting Erick’s phone records. Sure enough, he did search the internet for locations to find a battered men’s shelter. He actually made that search on multiple occasions in the weeks before his death.”

Officer Sorento is glaring at me like I’m the biggest liar in the world, and Officer Carwile just looks like he feels uncomfortable.

“I can’t tell you why he did that,” I say, trying to keep my cool despite wanting to scream, “But I can tell you that it’s not true. None of that is true. I never did anything like that! Erick was the abusive one, not me! He was awful to me!”

“I thought you said that everything was going fine, up until we got you in here and now suddenly your story is changing,” Officer Sorento says coyly. “Didn’t you originally tell us that nothing was wrong?”

I pause, unsure how to respond. I’ve really trapped myself here. If I tell them about how severe the abuse was, it will just be one more motive that I had to kill him. But if I don’t tell them about the abuse then they won’t understand the dynamic of our toxic relationship. I decide that somewhere on a middle ground would be better.

“There were two sides to Erick,” I start to explain. “On the one hand, Erick loved with all his heart. On the other hand, he abused with all his heart.”

“Sounds like there was a bit of that going both ways?” Officer Carwile suggests.

“No.” I say pointedly, making sure to look straight at him when I say it.

“These were really enlightening to us,” Officer Sorento says, holding up one journal in each hand. I hope he’s not about to read any more.

I can feel my pulse racing as I think about what I just read. Erick was such a manipulative piece of shit! I can’t believe he wrote all of that crap in his journal. He was trying to set me up!

“So, you arrested me for murder based on the fact that I said some mean stuff about him in my therapy journal? Good luck with that at trial!” I say, a little more conceitedly than I intended.

“No, we arrested you because of the results of the autopsy report,” Officer Sorento smiles devilishly. “And a little bit because of the journals. But mostly the autopsy report.”

My heart is thudding out of my chest. “Well? What is it then?”

“You were lying right from the beginning. We thought you were some grieving widow, but you were lying right from the beginning.”

“What do you mean? Lying about what?”

“Would you like to tell Julie here what we found out from the autopsy report,” Officer Sorento looks at Officer Carwile.

“I would love to,” he says, sitting up straighter in his chair. He stares at me and for a moment we make eye contact, but I can’t tell at all what he’s thinking. His face is stone cold.

“Julie…” Officer Carwile says, taking a deep breath. “We know that Erick didn’t actually have cancer.”

His words feel like a slap to the face. “What?” I ask, sure that I must be hearing him incorrectly.

“The gig is up,” Officer Sorento says. “We know that Erick never had cancer. We thought it was weird that you happened to know nothing about the medical treatment Erick was receiving, or even the name of the doctor. We also thought it was weird that this was supposedly the love of your life, and yet you never once went to any of his chemotherapy treatments. We couldn’t find anything about his cancer diagnosis in any of the paperwork we took from the house, nor did we find him as a patient for any local doctor offices that treat cancer. So we made sure the coroner would check to see if Erick even actually had cancer. As it turns out, he didn’t!”

“Wait!” I say, desperately trying to convince them that they’ve made a terrible mistake. “Dr. Nora knows! We talked about it in marriage therapy! Can’t you subpoena her or something?”

“We’ve already spoken with her, and she confirmed that Erick never mentioned anything about cancer during any therapy sessions,” Officer Carwile

I’m so stunned I can’t even speak. How could Dr. Nora say that?! She was the one who told us not to write about it in the journals! She knew Erick had cancer, and we talked about it at every session!

“This must be a mistake…” I try to say, before being cut off by Officer Sorento.

“The second we read the journals, we understood what was really going on in your marriage. You’ve been lying to us this whole time. If Erick didn’t have cancer, that means he didn’t die of cancer. It sounds like you’re the only one who knows what actually happened to him. But we have a hunch on what you did to him.”

My mind is swirling so much that I feel like I’m going to pass out or throw up. At least if I pass out, the chains around my hands will catch me so that my head doesn’t hit the ground. And if I throw up I’ll make sure to aim it directly at Officer Sorento.

But I can’t believe what I’ve just heard. Erick didn’t have cancer. Erick didn’t have cancer. If that were true, then why did he let me kill him? And more importantly, how do I convince these officers that I didn’t?!

CHAPTER TWENTY

SIX MONTHS PRIOR

Julie

Today we have our tenth session with Dr. Nora. We’ve been going about once per week, and she always schedules the sessions through Erick for whatever reason. He keeps reassuring me that this is normal and that she’s only doing that because she knows that Erick is dealing with the insurance and co-pays. I guess I am grateful that Erick is taking the initiative to do that, but it still seems weird and out of character for him.

But I don’t really think the therapy sessions are working. It feels like Dr. Nora is against me, no matter what I say. She always tells me that I’m not supporting Erick enough with his treatment and that I need to be doing more at home for him. Last week she told me that it would be nice if Erick came home to a clean house and a home-cooked meal on the table after his chemotherapy. I don’t disagree that it would be nice, but I also don’t know how she expects me to do all of that when I work full time!

I also don’t see why I should be responsible for everything while Erick never lifts a finger! He certainly had the ability to put his own underwear in the hamper, and instead he dropped it right next to the hamper. Am I just supposed to say nothing about that just because he has cancer?! When I tried to bring this up with Dr. Nora, she just told me that I needed to have more grace with him while he’s going through a difficult time.

Erick has been working from home, so none of his coworkers have seen him. Other than going to chemotherapy sessions every other afternoon, and going to see Dr. Nora with me every week, Erick doesn’t go out much or do anything. He told me that he doesn’t want people knowing that he’s sick.

I hadn’t noticed the drastic change in Erick until I stumbled upon a picture of him from a year ago. The difference is much more noticeable when seeing the change over a year versus seeing him every day and not noticing the small changes. In the past couple months he has probably lost at least twenty to thirty pounds. His eyes look more sunken in, and his skin has gotten slightly more pale. We knew these were normal symptoms of chemotherapy, but

Now we’re sitting in Dr. Nora’s office for our tenth session, and I sit wondering how many more sessions I have to suffer through before I can tell Erick that it’s not working and that I don’t want to go anymore.

“I was thinking about shaving my head,” Erick says abruptly, right at the beginning of the session. “It has been falling out in pieces and I just really want to get rid of it all.”

“Well, that seems like a normal thing to do, considering you’ve been going through chemo,” Dr. Nora nods approvingly. “What do you think about that, Julie? Is that something you can support?”

I blink at her, surprised that she would ask that question that way.

“Of course!” I say. “Erick has my full support. If he feels that it’s time to shave his head, I fully support it.”

“You’re going to think I’m ugly!” Erick says dramatically. I can see tears welling up in the corners of his eyes. I want to roll my eyes, but I don’t want Dr. Nora to see.

“I did marry you for more than your hair, you know,” I say, trying not to sound as sarcastic as I feel. The reality is that Erick's hair is the least of my problems. He can shave it off and paint his skin blue for all I care.

He sniffs. “Why did you marry me?” He looks me straight in the face, bottom lip quivering like he’s going to burst into tears at any moment. I grit my teeth. This is nothing more than manipulation. He really wants me to say why I married him?

“Because I love you,” I say, trying to sound as sincere as possible. The words are hard coming out of my mouth. It has been a long time since I've uttered those words to Erick.

“You don’t have any more specific reasons than that?” Dr. Nora asks. I see her poised to write something down in her notes. They both look at me with waiting eyes.

I grit my teeth and put on a fake smile, racking my brain for literally anything nice to say. “I love everything about you, Erick. I love how motivated and hard-working you are. I love how strong you are in the face of adversity.”

Erick beams, and Dr. Nora gives me a reassuring smile. “That was beautiful, thank you Julie. Erick, how does that make you feel?”

“Like we are finally making progress!” Erick says. He reaches up to wipe the obviously fake tears from his eyes. I want to barf because it looks like Dr. Nora is clearly buying this crap.

“So, how are the journals going? Are you both continuing to write down your feelings in them at least a few times per week?”

“I am,” Erick says obediently.

“I am, yes,” I say.

“Good!” Dr. Nora beams with pride. “And are we continuing to stay positive when writing in them?”

“Yes!” Erick says.

“Yes,” I lie through my teeth.

“Great! Well, I might want to read them one day, so continue the good work.”

At this point I would rather die than have Dr. Nora see the things I’ve written in the journal. I knew there was a possibility that she’d want to read them one day, but I don’t care. We never bring the journals to our sessions anymore, so if she were to ask to read them, we’d have to bring them to the following session. At that point I could just pretend like I lost it.

After we get home from our therapy session, I start feeling like maybe things aren’t going terrible. Maybe I can stick this out after all. I don’t know how much time Erick has left, but being weak has made him much more pleasant. Lately he’s too tired to hit me or yell at me; he just goes to the bedroom to sleep. It has also been really pleasant to be away from him while he’s at chemotherapy every other day. And despite how obnoxious the journaling process has been, I actually enjoy writing hateful things about Erick in my journal. Dr. Nora was wrong, it is much more therapeutic to write the hateful things down instead of bottle them up. I guess I could try to write something positive, but I’m not sure what would come out.

I sit in my favorite spot on the couch in front of the wood-burning fireplace. I think about how cozy it would be to light a fire right now and write while the embers crackle, but Erick wouldn’t like that. Erick has wanted to get rid of this fireplace for a long time because he says wood-burning fireplaces make everything smell like smoke. I personally think the smell is amazing, and it’s so cozy on colder nights like tonight. But if Erick doesn’t want it lit, then doing so is out of the question right now. I try to pretend that it’s lit.

I pull a blanket around my legs and lean back against the throw pillow on the couch. I open the pink journal to a clean page and stare at it. I think about our day and try to focus on writing something good about Erick.

Just as I’m about to start writing, Erick makes his way into the living room from the kitchen.

“Oh, hey,” I say, slightly startled by his sudden appearance in the room. “What did you think of our tenth therapy session today?”

“I thought it was stupid,” he says nonchalantly.

I put my pen down and stare at him. “Excuse me?”

“You didn’t hear me? Maybe it's time to clean out your ears. I said going to therapy was stupid and it was a dumb idea in the first place!” he says, making a point to get louder at the end of the sentence.

“How can you say that when it was your idea?!” I say, my voice shaking. “Today you said that you thought we were making progress. If you aren’t going to take it seriously then maybe we shouldn’t even bother taking this relationship seriously!”

“Well, if that’s what you want!” he says, practically shouting.

“Don’t make this about me!” I say, my bottom lip trembling. “You’re the one willing to throw in the towel!”

“Don’t act like you’re the only one who doesn’t want this relationship. We both know that we used each other to get what we wanted out of life!”

I stare at him, speechless. “What do you mean?”

“Don’t act stupid,” Erick says, lowering his voice so that he’s back to a talking volume instead of a screaming volume. “We both know that we both had ulterior motives for this relationship.”

“And just what is that supposed to mean?!”

“Oh come on, Julie. Don’t play stupid. I’m in this for the money and you’re in this for the baby. We both know that you’re dying to get pregnant and become a mother through any way possible. You don’t even care whether I stick around or not, as long as you have a baby.”

My nostrils flare in anger as I listen to his words.

“You’re wrong,” I shake my head back and forth, all the while knowing that he is completely correct in everything that he is saying right now.

“The sooner you stop lying to yourself, the better!” He looks at me up and down like he’s disgusted by what he’s seeing.

“But we’ve been making such improvements in therapy!” I say, embarrassed by how pathetic my voice is becoming. Even thought I don't exactly love everything about Erick, there's something about being rejected that doesn't sit right with me. Like it has to be my choice to end the relationship, not his. “Why have we even been going to therapy if you thought this relationship was a sham? What have we been working on then?”

“We’re going through the motions so that we can say that we tried,” he says coldly. "I can say that I tried, although I'm not so sure about you."

“Are you just going to give up on everything that we’ve learned? Look, I’m here working on things for us. I was doing my journal work before you even came down here! How can you say that I’m not really in this relationship?!”

“Yeah, I would love to see what you’re writing in that journal about me. Probably a bunch of lies and exaggerations like usual,” he says sarcastically.

His eyes float to the pink journal in my hands. I grip it tightly, in fear that he’s going to ask to read it. I don’t know what he’s doing to do to me once he starts reading some of the things I’ve written. But to my surprise, he doesn’t ask to read it.

I don’t know why I feel like I have to prove something to him right now. We both know that what he’s saying is true, yet I’m feeling defensive right now.

“I’ve been journaling every day and really putting in the work!” I say. “Maybe if you just try a little harder with your own journal, then we could fix what we have!” I stand and pick up the blue journal on the shelf next to the fireplace and shove it into his hands. I take a few deep breaths, realizing what I’ve just done. If Erick interpreted that in any way aggressive, he’s going to make me pay for doing that. To my surprise, he doesn’t backhand me with the journal like I thought he would.

“You know what I think about this stupid journal?” He walks closer to the fireplace and holds his blue journal a foot over the wood.

“Awfully dramatic,” I say, rolling my eyes. “It isn’t even lit.”

He puts the journal on top of the mantlepiece and pulls a box of matches from his pocket. I feel my heart rate quicken. Why does he have matches? Did he plan this? Is he bluffing? What is he going to do?! I’m silent as I wait to see what he’s going to do next. We make eye contact for an uncomfortably long time, staring at each other in silence, nothing but the sound of the breeze through the glass window panes.

After an uncomfortably long silence, which feels like an eternity but was probably only about a minute, he makes the first move. He lifts the match box dramatically in his left hand and in his right hand he holds a single match. I watch silently as he strikes the match along the side of the box, and a single flame erupts from the end of the match. He remains focused on my eyes as his hands seem to act independently from his mind. He throws the match into the fireplace and surprisingly, it lights immediately.

I stare at Erick, waiting for his next move. There’s no way he’s actually going to do what I think he’s going to do.

Erick picks up the blue journal and throws it into the fire without breaking eye contact with me. I’m horrified as I watch it burn. He looks into the fire contently for a few seconds and then walks out of the living room and up the stairs to our bedroom.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

PRESENT DAY

Julie

“Rise and shine, princess,” a guard says as he pounds on my cell door. I can hear the familiar plastic cafeteria tray slide through the hole in the door, followed by a lock as the guard closes the little door built in to the bottom of the big door. I assume they have this so that they can slide food in without worrying about the inmates escaping or biting them or something. Gosh, it would be satisfying to bite one of them.

Over the last couple days these guards have done nothing but make fun of me and make rude comments at me. The worst part is that they won’t let me out of here! I mean, I know that they can’t let me out of jail, but they haven’t even let me out of my cell! It’s just me and a cot, and a metal toilet with the dryest toilet paper I think they could possibly find.

They offered me a phone call when I was done with my interview with Officer Sorento and Officer Carwile yesterday, but I didn’t take it. I don’t know who I would call anyways. I’m sure my mom knows about me being arrested by now. After all, they carted me off in front of half the people who were at the funeral service. Maybe it’s good that they did that after the funeral and not right before it. I can't imagine what everyone would have said if I hadn't even been there at my own husband's funeral. It still probably doesn’t look good to leave my husband’s funeral in handcuffs, though.

Even if I did call my mom, I can’t imagine what I would say to her. I’ll never admit that I did this. He deserved it. But a big part of me wonders whether my mom would believe it or not. She’d also probably assume that I was calling about bail. They set my bail at $500,000.00. I don’t know anyone who has that much money, not even my parents. Even if my mom had that much money, I doubt she’d give it to me after she claims we wasted the last chunk of money she gave us. Erick used it on gambling, but she wouldn’t believe me even if I had proof of that to show her. All she knows is that we didn't use it on fertility treatments like we were supposed to, so there's no chance she'd give me another chunk of money for bailing me out of jail.

I look down at the tray on the ground to see what breakfast is for the day. Dinner the night before was some dry piece of chicken with canned green beans on the side, so I don’t have high hopes for today. There’s a bowl of what looks like slop, but I’m sure it’s supposed to be oatmeal. They couldn’t even be bothered to put brown sugar on it or anything that would make it taste like something. Next to it is a paper carton of orange juice, and a mini red apple. I poke the apple and then withdraw my finger as if waiting for it to move on its own. Once I’m satisfied that my food isn’t alive, I take it and sit on the hard but lumpy bed and take small bites. I know it looks awful, but I find myself hungry as I look at it.

I look around the room. There’s another lumpy bed on the other side, but so far it doesn’t appear that I have a roommate. That’s probably for the best because there’s only one toilet and no door to cover the toilet. We’d have to get real cozy real quick. I don’t know if my lack of roommate is because jail is slow and they don’t have anyone to put in here, or because of the heinousness of my alleged crimes. Maybe they don't want to lock up the regular criminals with the murderers because we are more dangerous. Am I going to be in solitude forever? I can feel tears start to well in my eyes as I begin to take in the reality of the situation. I don’t want to be in this room forever! I can’t! I’ve got to find some way to make bail so that I can get out of here and figure something else out.

I spend the next hour pacing the room, trying to think of anything I can do to prove my innocence, while knowing full well that I am not actually innocent. Erick and I were so sure that this plan would work, but we never anticipated that they were going to do an autopsy on a cancer patient! And I don't even really know what Erick was thinking anyways. If I tell them the truth, I’m going to be found guilty of premeditated murder, which I think comes with a life sentence. Even though he wanted me to kill him, I know it’s no excuse. Consenting to murder is not a defense in this state or maybe anywhere. I should have just let him suffer until he dropped dead on his own!

But I still can’t stop thinking about what Officer Sorento and Officer Carwile said. They claim that Erick never had cancer. That must be wrong, otherwise why would he let me kill him?? What benefit does he get from that? It just doesn’t make sense that he did this, unless he has cancer. If I ever get out of here, I’m going to look into an independent medical exam to prove that I'm right. And I'm going to have Dr. Nora confirm everything! She can tell the police everything he said during our therapy sessions, and then we can have a second person cut open his body and poke his organs and find answers. But aren’t they burying his body right now?! He’s probably six feet in the ground already!

I start to panic and have to sit on the ground with my head between my legs for a few minutes. Just as I start to feel my heart rate return to normal, my head snaps up at the sound of more banging on my door. It can’t be lunch time already, so what do they want now?

The door creaks open to reveal two guards, one female and one male. The female guard actually looks scarier than the male guard. She has what looks like a permanent scowl on her face.

“Get up,” the male guard says. “We’re going back to processing.”

I stand up obediently to follow his command, not sure where we are going. I assume processing is the place where I was the day before when they had taken my fingerprints and my picture and made me give up my clothing, but who knows. I don’t feel comfortable asking questions, so I just walk cautiously to the edge of the door.

I allow the female guard to grab my left arm, and the male guard grabs my right arm. It seems unnecessary considering either one of them on their own would be sufficient to prevent me from going anywhere, but maybe it's policy or something. Or maybe they just want to assert their dominance over me by reminding me that they are both here to keep me under control. Maybe they heard that I'm a murderer and they think I'm going to murder them if my hands aren't restrained. Who knows. We all walk arm in arm down the hallway. I wonder why they don’t have me cuffed, but I also don’t care. I’m just glad to not have those things around my wrists anymore!

Once we’ve made it back to the room I was in the day before, they let go of my arms. The male guard leaves the room, and I turn back to the female guard, still confused as to what we are doing here. She grabs a clipboard from the desk and starts writing on it.

“Alright, get your stuff. You made bail.” She doesn’t even look at me as she continues writing on the clipboard.

“I… I what?” I ask, too afraid to have her repeat the statement in the event that I heard her wrong.

“You… made…bail…,” she says slowly, mocking me. “Now get your shit. Third box on the left.” She beckons to a row of buckets, and I deduce that she wants me to grab the third one.

My heart does a flip in my chest. I can’t believe I’m actually getting out of here! Even if it’s only temporary, I’m dying to see the outside world again. My last memory of the outside can’t be the funeral home where I buried my dumb husband.

I don’t wait for her to say it again. I quickly walk over and pull out the third bucket from the left. Inside is a big plastic bag containing the clothes that I had on when I got here. It’s my nice black slacks and a flowery blouse, which I thought was very appropriate to wear as a widow to my husband’s funeral. Now that I’m going to have to walk of shame out of jail in these clothes, it feels a little silly. But anything is better than this itchy orange jumpsuit, so I’m willing to take whatever is in here.

“Is there a bathroom somewhere where I can change?” I ask, clutching the bag of clothes to my chest.

“Are you kidding me?” she asks. “This is it, honey. Better start getting used to changing in front of people. I’m sure you’ll be right back here when the trial is over. We’ll keep your bed warm for you.”

I choose to ignore her comments. I don’t even care anymore, as long as I’m really getting out of here. I decide that I better change as quickly as possible in case they change their mind or find out they’ve made a terrible mistake. I unzip the orange jumpsuit and let it hit the ground, followed by the white underwear and bra that they had given me to wear. Jail clothes look like they should be comfortable, but they are so not.

I quickly pull my own undergarments on and then pull the slacks up around my waist, followed by the flowered shirt. I decide that if this lady is going to watch me change, I might as well make polite conversation with her.

“How did my mom gather the money?” I ask.

“Excuse me?” She asks, clearly annoyed that I've even thought it was okay to ask her a question.

“Umm… how did my mom get the money? For my bail? Do you know?” The questions sound dumb coming out of my mouth. I sound like a little kid asking about her mommy.

“What do I look like, an information desk? I have no idea who paid your bail or why. I certainly don’t have any friends willing to lend me $500,000.00. You’re a lucky little bitch is what you are.”

I don’t even care that she just called me a bitch. I only care that I’m actually getting out of here! I do still want to know how my bail was paid, but that information can wait until I'm on the other side of the door.

They make me sign some paperwork and then the woman at the reception desk presses a buzzer that opens a door into the waiting room. I look around, expecting my mother to be sitting there waiting for me. I frown when I realize that she isn’t here waiting like a loving mother would do. In fact, no one is here.

I walk up to the reception desk and knock on the window to get the young woman’s attention.

“Excuse me, but is my mother here? She paid my bail but I just assumed that meant she’d be out here waiting for me.”

The woman looks like I’ve interrupted her, even though it’s her literal job to work at the reception desk.

“The woman who paid your bail took off,” she said. “Don’t know why.”

“She took off? Is she coming back?” I ask, even though I know it’s a stupid question.

“I don’t care what people do once the bail is paid. I assume that’s between the two of you.”

“I know, but she’s my mom…” I say, “I assume she wouldn’t just leave me here.”

“I don’t know who that woman was, and I didn’t get the name. But she definitely wouldn’t have been your mom.”

I frown at her. “What do you mean?”

“That woman was not your mother. I don’t know who she was, but she wasn’t your mom.”

“Okay…?” I say, more confused than ever. “Then who was she?”

“Don’t know,” she shrugs. “Have a nice night.”

I take the hint and exit the lobby and into the bright sky. I squint as I stare up at the sun and clouds. Even though I was only in the cell for a day, the daylight looks so warm and happy now.

I look around the parking lot, unsure who or what I’m looking for. How did that lady know that the woman who paid my bail wasn’t my mom? Is it because we didn’t look enough alike? My mom and I definitely look alike, unfortunately. I just hope I don’t inherit the permanent scowl that she seems to have on her face. Or is it because my mom looks so much younger than she actually is? I have long suspected that she has utilized Botox and possibly some other cosmetic procedures, but if she has, she would certainly never own up to it.

I guess my next step is to get home. Luckily I still have my wallet and cell phone. I am clutching the plastic bag that previously contained my clothes, and reach down into it to turn on my cell phone. I call a cab and use my last twenty dollars to get home.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

PRESENT DAY

Julie

I don’t even know what to do once I walk in my door. This house doesn't even feel like my house. But it's also a welcome view after thinking that I would spend my whole life in that jail cell. The house is eerily quiet and the air in here feels so… still. I flip the TV on and turn it to some crappy reality show. I don’t actually care what’s on the tv; I just want some background noise to drown out the sound of my own thoughts. Once there’s a little white noise playing, I look around the house and take it all in.

I really never thought I’d see the inside of my house again. But even now, it still doesn’t feel like it’s going to be permanent. It feels like I’m going to be signing house listing documents from inside a jail cell, if that's even what the procedure is when someone goes to jail but they own a house. But no, this is my house, and I want to stay in it for as long as I want. I'll just have to figure out how to prove my innocence.

But first, I’m really curious why my mom paid my bail and then didn’t stick around to see me or take me home. I know the lady at the desk who made me fill out paperwork for a half hour said that it wasn’t my mom, but what does she know? She doesn’t know my mom. Who else would pay my bail? It must have been her.

My cell phone has now died since it hasn’t been charged in a couple days, and the lovely guards didn’t exactly charge it for me while they were keeping my stuff stored away at jail. I plug it in to the outlet on the counter and then take the wall phone off the hook. I dial my mom’s number from memory and wait for her to pick up.

She answers on the third ring. “Julie?” she says in an unusually soft voice.

“Mom?” I ask, even though it’s not really a question because I know that it's her.

“Are you… home?”

“Yes,” I say quietly. She obviously knows I’m home because she has caller ID and she can see that I’m calling from my landline. But maybe she just can’t believe it.

There’s silence for another minute, but I think I can hear her breathing slowly in and out.

“So that’s it then? They made a mistake and you’re home now?”

I frown at her, even though she can’t actually see my frown. “What do you mean?”

“They let you go? They realized that they made a mistake and that you didn’t do what they accused you of doing?” She sounds cautiously hopeful.

“No, mom. That’s not what bail means. Bail doesn’t mean that I’ve been found innocent, it means that I paid enough to get out of there until the trial.”

“I’m not an idiot, Julie. I know what bail means. You act like I should have known that!” She says, clearly frustrated.

“Well… didn’t you know that? You’re the one who paid it… what did you think you were paying?”

“What are you talking about?!” My mom practically yells into the phone. “You seriously think I would pay to get you out of jail when you got arrested for murder and don’t even bother to call me about it?!”

“I… I… Someone paid my bail of $500,000.00,” I stutter into the phone. I still don't know what I'm hearing. “It really wasn’t you?”

“Do you seriously think I have $500,000.00? And if I did, that I would spend it on your bail for the murder charge you are facing?”

“Well, I think you only have to pay a small part of it, not the entire $500,000.00. But… it seriously wasn’t you? This isn’t a funny joke, mom.”

“Julie, it was not me. This isn't a joke. Does that mean you still might go to jail?”

“Yes, mom, that’s what that means. But are you seriously telling me that you didn't pay my bail? Who do you think it would be then?"

"I can't even imagine who would do that for you, I really can't. But it's not like you tell me much about your life, anyways. I don't have a clue who you hang out with or what you even do."

I don't even know how to respond to that, because she's not entirely wrong. I don't exactly share details of my life with my judgmental mom.

She sighs deeply. “Julie… I’m going to ask you something, and I want you to be honest. It’s just us talking. No one else is listening.”

“Okay…?” I say. My heart rate quickens. What is she about to ask me?

She takes a deep breath and pauses, leaving me hanging on her words. “ Julie, did you kill Erick?”

The words hang in the air as I try to process what she just said.

“Why… why would you ask me that?”

“Um, maybe because you got arrested at his funeral right in front of me, and then I had to watch my daughter get hauled away in a police car!” Her voice rises, and I can hear the anger in her tone. “Do you know that I called the police station all night trying to get ahold of you?! Or trying to get any information whatsoever about what was going on with you? I actually went and stood outside the building lobby for an hour trying to get them to let me in and tell me any information at all. It was really rough on me, Julie.”

I roll my eyes. “Gee, mom, sorry I wasn’t thinking about you and your comfort while I was busy in a jail cell!”

“You don’t have to get snippy with me, Julie! I’m not the one who was arrested for murder! Speaking of which, you never answered my question. Did you kill him?”

“No, I didn’t kill my husband. I can’t believe you would even ask me that!”

“Well then what happened to him? They’re saying he didn’t actually have cancer.”

“Who is saying that? Who did you hear that from?”

“Mom, I have to go. I just wanted to thank you if you were the one who paid my bail. Since you apparently weren’t, I have to go now and figure out who did pay it.”

“Julie, don’t you dare hang up on me! We have to talk about this! You were arrested for murder! I’m coming over there.”

“Don’t bother,” I say. “I won’t be home.” I hang up the phone and grab my keys and my partially charged cell phone. I decide that I’ll make my next call from the road.

Ten minutes later I am driving on the one-lane road towards the outskirts of town. I pick up my cell phone and type in an L. I scroll until I see Erick’s mom’s name – Linda – and I click on her name to initiate the call.

I’m only half expecting her to pick up. It’s not like we had a super great relationship even when Erick was alive, but I’m guessing we aren’t going to have any relationship at all now that he's dead.

It rings four times before someone finally picks up the line. But no one talks on the other end of the phone.

“Hey, Linda, listen–” I start to say.

“YOU BITCH!” She screams into the phone so loudly that I have to hold it away from my head. “YOU ABSOLUTE BITCH! YOU KILLED MY SON!”

“So, I’m guessing you didn’t pay my bail?” I ask calmly. Sometimes I think that the best way to fight fire is with water, not fire.

“PAY YOUR BAIL? YOU SHOULD BE IN JAIL! YOU SHOULD ROTTING IN A COLD JAIL CELL RIGHT NOW THINKING ABOUT WHAT YOU'VE DONE!”

“It’s lovely to talk to you, Linda. I’m gonna go ahead and say no, you didn’t post my bail.”

“I WOULD PAY MONEY TO KEEP YOUR ASS IN THERE FOREVER! YOU KILLED MY SON! YOU MURDERER! AND THEN YOU HAD THE NERVE TO MAKE UP A STORY ABOUT HIM DYING OF CANCER?! YOU’RE INSANE! YOU’RE CERTIFIABLY INSANE!”

“Okay, well it was great catching up with you, Linda. Please give my best to the family.” I hang up the phone before she can take another breath and start yelling at me again.

I don’t know who paid my bail, but there’s someone I need to talk to if I have any chance of proving my innocence, and it’s someone who is clearly against me. The only problem is that I don’t know why.

I need to go see Dr. Nora. She’s the next piece of this puzzle.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

PRESENT DAY

Julie

I drive as fast as I can to Dr. Nora’s office. The officers said that she didn’t know anything about Erick’s cancer diagnosis. Either they were lying to me, or she lied to them. And if it’s the latter, then I need to know why she’s protecting him.

I pull into a parking spot outside the building and rush in without even checking if I locked the car door. The building looks so different in the daytime. I can see just how ugly and outdated everything is even more in the light.

Even though I’ve never been here in the daytime, I have been here enough times at nighttime to know exactly where the office is. I throw the door open without even knocking.

A confused-looking receptionist snaps her head up from the desk as I burst through the doorway. Two women and a child look up at me from the waiting area, and I realize how crazy I must look as I see the expressions on their faces. I haven't even taken a shower since being in jail, and I don't have a clue what my makeup looks like right now. But I can't think about that right now because I'm here for an important purpose.

“Can I help you?” The receptionist asks, apparently recovering from her startle. She still clutches her hand across her chest like she’s checking for a heart attack.

“Is Dr. Nora available right now? I don’t want to interrupt if she’s with a patient right now, but I have an urgent question for her.”

The woman looks at me blankly. “Who?”

“Sorry, Dr. Roberts,” I correct myself. “Dr. Nora Roberts. She told us she goes by Dr. Nora, but Roberts is her last name.”

The woman continues looking at me blankly. If this name is ringing a bell for her, it’s not clear to me from her vacant expression. She blinks at me.

“We don’t have any doctors here by that name,” she says flatly, then goes back to typing on her computer as if I don't exist anymore.

“Nora Roberts,” I repeat, “Dr. Nora Roberts. She’s a marriage therapist.”

“Well, that might be true ma’am, but I still have no idea who that is. You must have the wrong place.”

I look around, and then open the door and glance back into the hallway. I am sure that this is the place. So why is she telling me that it isn't?

“I have been here a dozen times,” I say, getting frustrated. “This is the right place. Normally we are here to see her at night, so I’m not usually here in the daytime. Maybe you just don’t know all the doctors who are here seeing patients in the evenings.”

“The building isn’t even open after 6:00 p.m. As I’ve said, you have the wrong office. I know all the doctors and therapists in this building and there is no Nora Roberts or even anything similar to it. There aren’t even any therapists in this office, it's just accountants and things like that. Sorry that I can’t be of more help but you have the wrong place.”

“If you’ll just let me go back there, I can show you where her office is!” I plead to the woman. It’s infuriating that she doesn’t believe me when I know exactly where Dr. Nora should be right now. I move towards the door without waiting for her permission.

“Ma’am!” she snaps at me. “Do not touch that door, please.”

I pause with my hand hovering over the door knob, debating my next move. If I could just get in there, I’m confident that this receptionist would see that she’s wrong. But if I run back there and she calls the cops on me, I could end up right back in jail with extra charges to add to my rap sheet. I don’t think Officer Sorento would let me out of jail ever again if he has to respond to a call involving me today.

I turn back towards the receptionist to try one more time. “Are you sure you don’t know who I’m talking about? She’s fairly young, like maybe thirty, and she’s really pretty with blonde hair that’s usually curled?”

The woman just stares back at me, her face clearly displaying annoyance.

“Ma’am, you have the wrong office. Please leave now before I call the cops.”

She doesn’t need to tell me twice. I run out the door and back towards the parking lot. As I walk quickly down the hallway, I am even more sure that that was Dr. Nora’s office. What is going on? Is someone covering for her?

I pull my car door closed and let out a scream, punching my fists against the steering wheel. What the hell am I supposed to do now? The one person who could back me up on Erick’s diagnosis, or at least what I thought was Erick’s diagnosis, is apparently a backstabbing trader who has now disappeared. I let the tears slide from my eyes as I continue to pound the steering wheel.

A red car pulls up next to me in the parking lot, and I can see the person looking at me in my peripheral vision. I avoid eye contact and try to pull myself together, wiping silent tears from my eyes. I take a deep breath. I can still see the person staring, and it’s starting to get annoying.

The person in the red car honks the horn twice quickly, clearly trying to get my attention. I ignore it, fuming with anger. I imagine it’s some looky-loo trying to see if I’m okay or involve themselves in my business, and I’m not in the mood for that. Or worst case scenario, it’s someone who saw me in the news and wants to ask me if I really killed my husband. I don’t know for sure whether I ended up in the news, but I wouldn’t be surprised based on what typically ends up in our local news.

The person in the red car honks twice again, this time a little louder and more aggressive. I ignore it. They honk a third time.

I am fuming as I throw open my car door and approach the red car, expecting to confront a stranger who recognizes me from the television or something. I don't actually know how public my arrest was because I haven't bothered to look at the news yet, but maybe they've put my picture all over the place and that's why this person in the red car knows who I am and wants to get my attention. I bend over until I'm looking straight into the front of the car, expecting to start into the face of a stranger.

Instead, I am staring face to face with Dr. Nora. She has her normal wavy blonde hair, but she’s wearing big sunglasses that look like bug eyes. If she’s trying to wear a disguise, it’s a bad one.

She rolls down her window and I prepare to start yelling at her. How dare she show up like this after everything she did to me!

“Get in,” she says. I hear the distinct click of the door unlocking.

“Excuse me?!” I say. I don't even know where to start with her. If she thinks I'm going anywhere with her she's crazy!

“Get in,” she says a second time, more forcefully.

“Why should I listen to anything you have to say? You’re a liar!” My nostrils flare in and out as I spit the words at her. This is all her fault!

“I’m the one who paid your bail. And if you want to know why, you’ll get in the damn car.”

Her words are like a slap to the face. I’m so surprised that I do as she says. I open the door and climb into the passenger seat, heart racing.

“I have something to show you,” she says, facing straight ahead.

“What could you possibly have to show me?” I ask with a hint of snippiness. I am absolutely exasperated by this conversation.

I watch as she pulls out her phone and opens the pictures app. There's a sea of little boxes with random colors, until she eventually lands on one and clicks it. It’s dark in the video, and I immediately recognize the brick walkway lined by shrubs and daffodils. She lets the video play for a few seconds and I watch as the person holding the camera walks up the walkway. She clicks the video once more, pausing it, and turns to look at me.

“Is that the front of my house?” I ask, somewhat redundantly. I can tell right away that that's exactly what it is. My heart rate quickens and I can feel bile rising in my throat. I already know the answer to the question.

“Yes,” she says, “And I’m surprised you didn’t see me out there when you were leaving on your little joy ride.”

I blink at her, not comprehending what she’s saying. “Joy ride?”

“Yeah, your little post-murder joy ride.” She pulls the video up and clicks it again.

The person filming can’t be seen, but it’s clear that someone is holding the phone while filming. I hear the garage open and then the person filming, who I am assuming now is Dr. Nora, rushes into the bushes. The camera is trained on the driveway and soon my white Mercedes can be seen pulling out of the driveway. My face and upper body are clearly seen through the window of the car.

I feel the blood drain from my body. In the video, I’m wearing the same outfit as I was wearing the night that I murdered Erick. She filmed me leaving the house after killing Erick!

I gulp and turn back towards her. “I’m not sure why you were filming me, but that doesn’t prove anything. The police know that I found him after coming back from a drive! He was alive when I left, and he was dead when I came back.” I recite the story as if I’m trying to convince myself of its truth.

“We both know that’s not true!” She laughs, and the sound chills me to the bone. It’s not a funny laugh; it’s an I-know-what-you-did laugh.

I stare at her again, unable to speak. I take a few deep breaths and rack my brain for what to say to her.

“You can think whatever you want,” I manage to say, “but you can’t prove anything.” I cross my arms at her defiantly.

“Oh, but I can,” she smiles devilishly.

She swipes her finger across the screen, scrolling to the previous video. The screen is paused with a big play button in the middle, and I don’t even need her to hit play to realize what she’s about to show me.

She hits the triangular play button and I can immediately feel my heart drop to the pit of my stomach.

The view on the video is the inside of my living room, taken from the vantage point of someone standing outside and pointing the camera into the window. I can see clearly from the video that there was a crack in the blinds, and the phone is being held perfectly pointed in the middle of the crack.

I watch helplessly as the video shows Erick and I standing in the middle of the living room just moments before he died. I watch him get onto the ground and then I stand over him and grab the pillow and blanket. It’s exactly as I remember it, but there’s something about watching myself do it that makes me sick. I choke back vomit as warm tears flow from my eyes. I continue watching the video, unable to look away as I relive the moment of Erick’s death.

The amount of time it took to suffocate him is a lot longer than I remember, and the video shows him clearly putting up a fight the whole time. I instinctively reach to touch the bruises on my arms that resulted from that struggle. My body feels cold and sweaty at the same time, and my heart is beating so fast that I’m sure she can hear it.

“That’s… that’s… that’s not what it looks like!” It sounds stupid coming out of my mouth.

“It looks like you suffocated him with a pillow and blanket,” she says. The side of her lip turns up into a ‘gotcha’ smirk.

“But he asked me to do it! He consented!” I feel the words tumble out of my mouth before I can stop them.

“You know that’s not what the law says. A person can’t consent to being murdered. And I know you knew that when you did it, because otherwise you wouldn’t have concocted the story about Erick having cancer.”

“He told me that he did! I had no reason to doubt him!” I can feel the tears start coming out of my eyes. This is it, I’m going right back to jail and I’m going to be locked up forever.

“That is the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard!” She laughs maniacally. “Why would he lie about having cancer?!”

“You know that he lied! You were there during our sessions when we talked about it!” The tears are pouring down my face at this point. “I’ve thought a lot about this,” I manage to say through sniffs. “He was abusing me. He wanted me to go to jail forever, so he faked the story so that I’d try to kill him. It’s some Gone Girl shit.”

She throws her head back and laughs even harder. “You really believe that? I think you’re just a cold-blooded murderer, and you deserve to go to prison forever.”

My chest heaves up and down, and I can feel the air whoosh quickly in and out of my nostrils.

“Why are you protecting him?! And wait… what were you doing at our house that night? Why were you filming us through the window?”

She stares back at me. “Because I was fucking your husband, you idiot.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

ONE YEAR PRIOR

Erick

Today is our four-year wedding anniversary. I have a doctor appointment today to get my sperm checked. Or at least, that’s what Julie thinks I’m doing. But I actually had the doctor appointment a month ago. She was just too dumb and scatter brained to notice, so when I told her it was today, she just believed me. It turns out I’m fit as a fiddle and in perfect health! But that’s not what I’m going to tell Julie.

I did meet someone rather interesting at the doctor’s office, though. I haven’t stopped thinking about her for a month. Today I’m going to ask her on a date. I know that I’m married, but things aren’t going to last between me and Julie. I knew when I married her that we probably wouldn't last forever, but I thought she'd be a little bit different. I thought she'd cook for me more and put out for me more often, but lately she can't even do either of those things. She only lets me have sex with her if she's ovulating so that we can try to make a baby, otherwise she's not really interested and makes up every excuse in the book. She's also a teacher and only works partial days, yet she can't even keep the house clean for when I get home from work. It's pathetic!

I do need to stay married to her for a little bit longer to make sure that I get some of her inheritance. We have a prenup stating that we need to be married for at least five years in order for me to get some of her fortune in a divorce. Plus, I have a feeling she's going to get even more of her inheritance than what her parents are letting on. They are extremely wealthy, and I know they will take care of Julie. So I just have to hang on for one more year, and then I can get rid of her and move on. And I think I know just the person that I’m going to move on with.

She has golden blonde hair, like the sunshine. Her name is Eleanor, or Nora for short. I went to see her at the recommendation of my doctor after I told him that I was experiencing extra stress as a result of all of Julie’s abuse to me. I told my doctor that I'm not doing well mentally and physically because of my wife who just yells at me all day and demeans me all day. Of course that wasn’t true, but I’m just trying to get a paper trail here to document how crazy Julie is. The doctor recommended I schedule a session with a marriage therapist named Eleanor to discuss the issues in my marriage.

Eleanor was really sweet, and she let me blabber her ear off about Julie for over twenty minutes even though it was technically just an introductory session and not a "real" therapy session yet. I told her all about the inheritance and how I have to stick with Julie until she gets it, and I feel stuck in the relationship, clinging on just for the hope of getting some of her fortune. Eleanor was a great listener.

At the end of our conversation, Eleanor actually suggested that Julie and I meet with her for a couple’s therapy session to address all of the problems. I don’t think it’s a terrible idea, except that I thought she couldn’t provide therapy to both of us if she already listened to my side of the story. She had winked at me and told me that we could meet with her unofficially, and she’d even change her name and rent space in a different office building after business hours so that no one would see us there. I told her I would think about it.

The reality is that I can feel that Julie wants to leave the relationship, and I’m pretty sure she knows that I’m looking elsewhere for love. I mean does she really think I’m out working at all hours of the evening? Sometimes it doesn't seem like she even cares unless she's trying to make a baby, then she definitely wants me to be home, but other than that she doesn't really seem to question where I go or when. I need to keep Julie long enough to get the inheritance and then have it be my choice to end the relationship. I need to start getting a little sympathy from Julie so that she stays with me at least until the rest of her fortune comes in.

I want to mess with Julie a little. Tonight we are going out for our wedding anniversary, and I’m going to tell her that I have cancer. I hope she cries and feels sorry for me. If she feels sorry for me then maybe I can get whatever I want and she won’t leave me. I need her to hang on for one more year until she gets her full inheritance.

Julie reacted so poorly to the news of my cancer that it was almost hurtful to see that she clearly doesn’t care about me. We went out to dinner and I told her, and all she cared about was whether that’s the reason she hasn’t gotten pregnant yet. I would care more about her reaction if I cared more about her, but luckily, I don’t. It's still disappointing that she didn't cry or get visibly upset in the restaurant. This just reinforces my thought that she is already out of this relationship anyways. But I do need to cling on, at least until our fifth wedding anniversary.

One thing I know for sure is that I’m not going to stop seeing Eleanor. Her smile is like sunshine on a cloudy day, and she is the only source of happiness in my life right now. I have to figure out a way to keep her and get rid of Julie, while still getting most or all of Julie’s money. I have to come up with a really good plan.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

NINE MONTHS PRIOR

Dr. Nora

It’s been a few months that I’ve been dating a patient. I know I shouldn’t, but I just couldn’t help it. Erick told me that he’s staying with his wife out of necessity because she’s going to inherit a ton of money in a year, and he will only get some of it if they make it to their five-year anniversary. He did apologize to me that we can’t really be together publicly because he has to make it look like he’s still married to Julie for a while longer, and he can’t tell her about me obviously. I couldn’t care less about that part. I just want to see if I can wait out the rest of the year long enough to get some money from this idiot. It’s actually embarrassing that he thinks we are in love. I have student loans to pay for this stupid therapist degree that I got, and I just want to get my money and leave. The second he told me about the money in that first session, I knew I had to keep this idiot around and see this through.

Erick also disclosed to me that he basically spent all of the last portion that Julie’s mom advanced to her by blowing it on gambling. Her mom thought they spent it on fertility treatments, and Julie believes that he invested the money, but really he blew it. I still can't believe he was that honest with me, but somehow people always tell therapists their deepest darkest secrets, so I guess I shouldn't be too surprised that he spilled the beans. So now it seems like someone needs to come in and manage this situation since he clearly can't handle getting large chunks of money, and I think I’m the right person to do it.

But there’s just one big problem, and that’s Julie. I don’t foresee Erick being able to successfully take the money and just leave her and take all of it. Maybe she will even manipulate him into staying in the relationship longer. And even though he claims he is doing everything possible to prevent an actual pregnancy (whatever that means), I still can't help feeling that she may end up baby-trapping him into staying in the relationship if she does get pregnant. So I don't trust that Julie and Erick will break up naturally. We have to figure out something else.

I told Erick that it’s time for us to pull the trigger on our plans. We both want to get rid of Julie. I don’t mean kill her, I just mean make her go away for a long time. We both agreed that framing her for some sort of crime would be the best way to accomplish this. So now we just have to plan the details and put the plan into motion.

Erick has already been telling Julie that he has cancer and that he’s been going to treatments. He is really committed to the bit, which is quite impressive. He has even talked about eating less so that he starts looking skinnier, and he has also talked about shaving his head. Now we need to start getting into Julie’s head and plant some evidence for a crime.

I’m sitting across from Erick now. We’ve gone out to eat at a restaurant three towns over so that no one will recognize us. It’s still a risk, but if someone sees us we can just say that we are old friends from high school who ran into each other and decided to catch up. Or we can tell people that it's a networking dinner, although I haven't quite figured out what to tell people that we are networking about in case they ask follow-up questions. But regardless, we don’t have to tell people that we’re on a date. Erick seems like kind of a loner anyways, and he has never really talked about any other friends or acquaintances, so I’m not sure that anyone would recognize him for any reason at all.

I squint across the table at him. Why are Italian restaurants so dark? I’m just glad that it’s nice and loud in here so that no one will be able to eavesdrop on our conversation. The background noise of everyone else in the restaurant, coupled with the fact that we are way over in a corner booth, will ensure that we aren’t overheard. It is imperative that no one else know about our plans.

“So, what are we doing to do about Julie? What’s the plan?” I ask him.

“Well, she still thinks I have cancer which is hilarious. I'm having so much fun and getting major sympathy from her. She can't possibly leave me now while I'm in the middle of treatments! So now we just have to plan the next step to get rid of her. What crime do you think we should set her up to commit, and how are we going to do it?”

“Since she already thinks that you have cancer, what about attempted murder?” I ask casually, hoping it doesn’t sound too crazy of an idea. To my surprise, he nods thoughtfully.

“That's an interesting idea, and it would certainly ensure that she goes to jail for a long time. But how are we going to do that? Set up her phone to make it look like she was trying to hire a hitman?”

“That's one possibility. But maybe we have to make her think that she needs to kill you. Like we have to set her up to try. And then, we get the police to catch her in the act. She goes away to prison for life, and then you and I can be together with all her money.”

“That all sounds great,” he says. “But what exactly do we do to start this plan?”

“Get her to come to therapy with me. Don’t tell her who I really am, just tell her that I’m a marriage therapist. We’ll have some sessions and plant some evidence. We'll gaslight her into thinking that she's a bad wife so that she tries harder to be nice to you. I'm not sure exactly but we can figure it out. Once I have her in my control, I think the rest will naturally fall into place. We don't have to have all the details right now because we have a while to do this. We can't do this until at least your five-year wedding anniversary because we need to make sure she inherits all the money while you are still together.”

“Okay, but what type of evidence?” He asks. I watch as he twirls his spaghetti around on his fork and then shoves it into his mouth, chewing with his mouth open the whole time. It’s extremely off-putting and I don’t know why anyone would choose to marry this guy on purpose.

I sit, thoughtfully thinking about this plan.

“What if I assign you both journals to write in, and I give specific prompts? They can even be fake prompts where she has to describe various things that will eventually look bad to the police when they inevitably find the journals and read them. And we’ll use yours to do the opposite! You can write all about how bad Julie is, and take the attention off of yourself and make her look like a liar!”

“That sounds like it could work,” he nods. “I just have to convince Julie to do it, and I’m not sure I’ll be able to yet.”

“You just have to continue treating her like garbage, but not enough to make her leave you immediately. And make her feel like your body is getting weaker every day so that you look sicker and sicker. Blame your bad attitude on the treatments. Eventually she will be so battered emotionally that she will have too low of self-esteem to leave you anyways.”

“People going through cancer treatments usually look all pale and thin, and then they start losing their hair. I’ll have to commit to this bit even more if it’s going to be believable to Julie.”

“Well, then maybe this should be your last plate of pasta for a while,” I say, frowning at him. “You’re not going to lose any more weight eating like that.”

“You’re right,” he frowns, looking down at his plate. “My diet starts tomorrow. I’ll get some sort of protein powder and I’ll just limit myself to one or two drinks per day and nothing else. I should be able to drop the weight pretty quickly. It's going to suck, but I'll just keep thinking about the money as my motivation.”

“And what about your hair?”

“I’ll tell Julie that it started falling out so I had to shave it. I’ll be sad to be bald since I have such nice hair, but it will grow back eventually, and we won’t have to worry about that while we are enjoying the money!”

“Sounds good,” I say, nodding.

“Sounds like a plan,” he says. “Should we go back to your place after this and celebrate this plan?” He raises his eyebrows suggestively and winks at me. I guess I have to sleep with him once in a while or he will get suspicious that I don’t actually like him. He’s not horrible in bed, so I’ll just put up with it for a while longer.

“Sure,” I say, smiling at him in as flirty of a manner as I can manage.

This man is an idiot. He doesn’t realize that I have a slightly different plan than his plan, and it’s going to solve the problem of getting both of them away from the money. It’s going to be the perfect murder.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

ONE WEEK PRIOR

Julie

I sit across the kitchen table from Erick. We are both enjoying the grilled cheese and tomato soup that I made for dinner. Well, I am enjoying it. Erick looks like he has barely touched it. I have to admit that it has been nice not having to worry about cooking expensive meals for Erick any more. He doesn’t eat much anyways, usually just a protein shake in the mornings, and even that is a struggle.

The chemo has totally rid him of an appetite. He has gotten so thin lately. Normally Erick would complain about me making grilled cheese and tomato soup because that’s ‘poor people food,’ but tonight he says nothing about it. In fact, it has been a few weeks that Erick has said nothing about my cooking. For a while he would complain when I actually did make food that smelled good, which was odd because he spent so long getting mad at me if I didn't cook him delicious food, and now he's doing the opposite since he claims he can't eat it because the smell of food makes him nauseous now. I don't understand why he can't just take a bite of the food, but whatever.

“I have something to talk to you about,” Erick says, a tone of seriousness in his voice that I haven’t heard before.

“What is it?” I ask, putting down my spoon and giving him my full attention. This is very unusual behavior for him to say something like that. We never really "talk" anymore. Normally we do not have serious conversations like this.

“I don’t have much time left, and I’m just going to get weaker and weaker. I don’t want to live this way.”

I gulp in nervousness at him saying that he doesn't have much time left. What does that even mean?

“What are the doctors saying?” I ask.

“It’s not good, and I think you can tell. I really don’t want to see how much longer I’m going to just wither away.”

I nod, not sure exactly where he’s going with this. Is he trying to make me feel bad for him? Because that ship has long sailed.

“I don’t want to live this way,” he repeats, “And I know you don’t want to deal with me anymore.”

“I… that’s…” I struggle to find the words, but the reality is that he's right. This isn't Erick anymore, this is just a shell of a human that I used to know. And his negative attitude about everything has not been easy to deal with. I know he's struggling with the treatments, but his behavior has been atrocious and having an end to that would be great at this point.

“No need to pretend like it’s something it’s not. We are where we are. But I don’t want to pretend anymore. This isn't a life worth living.”

“Why are you telling me this?” I ask. “What exactly is the purpose of this conversation?” I want him to get to the dang point and stop talking in vague statements.

“I want you to help me end my life,” Erick says. His voice is calm and his tone is even. It’s as if he just told me that he’s thinking of going to the grocery store, and not that he’s thinking of ending his life.

I stare at him for a minute, unblinking. “What on earth are you talking about?!” I say, dumbfounded. The chemo, coupled with his lack of food, must be making him talk crazy thoughts.

“I want you to help me end my life,” he repeats, just as calm as the first time he said it.

“You must be insane!” I shake my head back and forth and close my eyes, willing the thought to exit out of my head. “You must be out of your damn mind if you think I would ever even consider doing something like that!”

“Hear me out,” he says, putting a hand up.

“I will not hear you out!” I pound my fist onto the table, and Erick’s expression changes to one of surprise at my sudden movement. “This is not happening! No way! Go ask a doctor to do that! I'm sure they'll put you in a nice room with padded walls!!”

“You know that I’m going to die soon anyways, right?”

“And you can go ahead and die naturally whenever it is your time!” I spit the words at him. I feel warmth rise up in my cheeks, and I think I’m going to cry.

“I am miserable. Every day is bad now. I used to have good days and bad days, but now they are just all bad. I can feel my body shutting down, and my soul withering away. This is not how I want to go out. This is not how I want to be remembered.”

“No one even knows that you’re sick, so what makes you think that anyone would remember you like this?”

“Well, obviously people will come to my funeral. They will see me in the casket and they’ll know something was wrong. I want them to remember me as me.”

I take a deep breath, still not convinced that I am hearing him correctly. This must be some sort of joke.

“When and how were you thinking about doing this?” I only ask the question to get more information about his crazy plan to see how far he has thought about this, not because I am seriously entertaining this thought.

“I’m not sure exactly. We would have to make it look like I died of natural causes… of the cancer. Assisted suicide is still murder, so we have to figure out a way where it looks accidental. It has to look like I got really weak and that my organs just failed one day. It can’t be something messy like a gun or knife because that would be way too obvious, and it can’t be something that leaves a trace like poison because that could be linked back to you.”

“You’re not serious,” I say, shaking my head again. He seemingly ignores me. I feel like I'm going to throw up.

“What about suffocation?” he suggests. “That could work. And if they can see that it’s a medical thing and that I was weak with cancer, they won’t even think to question it. They won’t do an autopsy or anything; it will just be clear from medical records that I had cancer and they will assume my organs just shut down one day.”

I take a big breath in and let it out in a dramatic sigh. I don’t want to admit that I am seriously considering this. It would be such a weight off my shoulders to get rid of Erick. If he's going to die soon anyways as he says he is, then why not help speed that up? He's asking for it after all. I gather my thoughts before opening my mouth again.

“Let’s say for a second that I am actually considering doing this. When would it happen?”

“I’m good with a week,” he says. I think I can almost see tears forming in his eyes, but he turns away quickly before I can see.

“One week from today? So on our five-year wedding anniversary?” I ask. “How poetic,” I say sarcastically.

“It’s a date,” he says. He gets up and leaves the kitchen before I can even change my mind. I stare after him with utter disbelief in my eyes. Have I just committed to this plan? Am I seriously going to do this?

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

PRESENT DAY

Julie

I stare at the woman who just told me she was sleeping with my now dead husband. My heart is racing as I try to make sense of what she is telling me. But if she was sleeping with my husband, why would she bail me out of jail? Why hasn’t she shown the police that video yet? I guarantee I wouldn’t be out on bail right now if she showed them that.

“What do you want from me?” I ask the only question I can think to ask. My chest heaves up and down with each labored breath. My heart is practically jumping out of my chest.

“What makes you think I want something from you?” She smiles coyly, and it makes my blood boil.

“You bailed me out of jail! My bail was $500,000! We aren’t exactly friends, so what do you want in exchange for bailing me out? Just get to the catch!” I say, exasperated. I am in no mood to wait around to see if she decides to tell me what’s really going on. She better start spilling the details and soon.

“I want half of the money that was supposed to go to Erick,” she says bluntly.

“Half of the money?!”

“Or I could just make you give me all of it, you awful bitch! I think I’m being incredibly generous by only asking for half!” Her face is filled with anger for the first time, but I see her take a breath to cool off.

I’m surprised at how she snaps at me. “First of all, it was going to be my money, my inheritance. It wasn’t Erick’s money to begin with. Inheritance is separate property in this state, so the other spouse isn’t technically entitled to any of it.”

“Didn’t you have a prenup saying that he would get a big chunk if you were married for at least five years?”

I freeze, glaring at her. “How do you know about that?”

“Because I’ve been seeing your husband for a year! He has told me everything about you. I know all the details of the inheritance.”

I blink rapidly at her, unsure if I’m hallucinating this conversation or not.

“A year? So all that time we were seeing you for marriage therapy, you were really pretending to be our therapist? For what?! To mess with me? Are you even a real therapist? Because no one in this office even knows who you are!” I gesture pointedly to the building. My nostrils flare in and out as I try to hold back the angry tears that threaten to erupt from my eyes.

“Of course I’m a real therapist, just not here. Erick and I decided to rent the office space in the evenings for our sessions so that you wouldn’t know who I really am. By the way, I’m Eleanor, not Nora. Nora is just a fake name that I made up so that you wouldn't know who I am. But I even made a website in case you googled me."

“So it was all fake?! I can’t believe you! I can’t believe you both treated me like this!” I shout, trying to hold back the tears.

“Don’t be so naïve. This isn’t personal, it’s just business. We had to frame you for attempted murder so that you would go to jail and then we could live happily ever after. Plus, don’t play the victim here. You killed your husband, remember? And I have it on tape.”

“But…” I feel lightheaded, and I lean over in the passenger seat to put my head between my legs. I stay like that for a minute and Eleanor says nothing. When I’m feeling a little better, I put my head back up and look at her.

“So, if I give you half the money, you’ll make that video go away?” I ask, looking at her through blurred eyes full of tears. I'm not seeing any way out of this.

“Exactly. I’m going to need the money for the baby,” she says, rubbing her stomach. I glance down at her stomach, where the very slight curvature can be seen.

I am speechless for a minute as I try to comprehend what she has just said. “You’re pregnant?” I ask rhetorically. “Is it Erick’s?”

“Of course it’s Erick’s!” She says, laughing. “What do you think I am, a whore? You think I was trapping multiple men out of their inheritance by sleeping with them?”

“I mean, you were sleeping with my husband…” I regret the words as soon as they come out of my mouth. I need this woman on my side, at least until I can figure out a way to get the video away from her.

“Wait a minute,” I say, momentarily forgetting about the baby. “Bail is only temporary. I’m still on the hook for a murder investigation and trial. Why would I give away my money if I’m just going to prison for the rest of my life anyways? Why wouldn’t I just enjoy whatever time I have right now, spend all the money, and then hope for the best at trial?”

“Because there’s a chance that you may not be found guilty,” she says, a twinkle in her eye.

“Yeah, but what are the chances of that happening? The district attorney’s office made it sound like they have a mountain of evidence against me. Not to mention your video, if you decide to show it to them.” I hold my breath at that last part, hoping that she decides to do the right thing and not show it.

“I’ll give you the video for half the money. You have my word,” she says, dropping her voice even though no one is around to hear us.

“Okay, but even without the video, the forensic evidence is too high. Plus, I don’t know if that will even be enough with all the other evidence that they have! I wrote horrible things about him in my journal, and he wrote all kinds of things to set me up in his journal. And that part is all your fault! You really messed us up here!” I feel a tear start to drip down my cheek. My life is ruined, all because I was trying to help my sick husband.

“You would be taking the video out of the picture, plus you’d have someone to corroborate your story. The true story.”

I stare at her, blinking back tears. “What do you mean? How would you corroborate my story?”

“I’ll come forward and testify. I’ll tell them that he abused you, and that he was a narcissist. I’ll confirm the fake cancer story, which could get me in a lot of trouble because I’d basically be admitting that I lied to the police. I’ll tell them that he abused me too, and that I did see you two for marriage therapy. I'll confirm all the details of what actually happened, minus the part about him getting strangled to death. You’ll give me half the money once the trial is over, and we can both move on from this.”

“I think that could work,” I say, taking a deep breath. What other choice do I really have?

“I’ll fix the mess that I helped start, and make this all go away. What do you say?”

“Okay,” I say quietly, staring at the ground.

“Okay?” She says, a hint of hope in her voice.

“But I am confused about one thing,” I say, looking back up at her.

“Why did Erick actually go through with the crime if he didn’t actually have cancer? He hated me that much that he wanted to set me up for murder whether he was here or not? Why would he agree to die?!”

“Oh, honey. Do you not get it by now? He wasn’t supposed to actually die!” She laughs maniacally. “That part was all me. Our plan was that Erick would pretend to have cancer, and then eventually he’d convince you to kill him to put him out of his misery. Except he didn’t actually have cancer. So instead, the plan was that he'd leave the blinds open a crack on the night of your plan, and I’d be there to film everything. I was supposed to let you make a sufficient attempt by holding the blanket and pillow over his mouth for at least a minute, and then I would rush in and push you off of him and save him.”

“But you didn’t,” I say, putting two and two together.

“Right,” she nods. “Poor Erick looked over at me right before you covered his face, and I gave him a thumbs up like I was ready to go and understood the plan. Little did he know that I wasn’t ever planning to save him. I think he realized that about a minute or two into you suffocating him, but at that point he was too weak to get you off of him, and you went through with it. I'm actually impressed that you went through with it. I thought there was a chance that you'd change your mind and then our plan wouldn't work. But you did it! You actually did it! Everything was perfect, and it was the perfect murder.”

I suddenly feel sick, and the jail meal that I had earlier today threatens to erupt from my stomach at any moment. I choke it back and continue listening to her as my head spins a mile a minute. That’s why Erick was so calm, and that’s why he tried so hard to fight me off. He wasn’t expecting to die that night; he was expecting me to go to prison for attempted murder! And then he’d ride off into the sunset with Eleanor!

“I mean, the whole plan relied on you saying yes to killing him. I still can’t believe you did that. You’re a cold-blooded bitch.” She laughs again, shaking her head back and forth.

I ignore her comment, swallowing hard. I need to get back the control of this conversation and of this situation. “So, how can I be sure that you’ll actually do what you say you’re going to do? How do I ensure that you’re not just going to take the money and run away with it, and still send the video to the police anyways, and then just disappear?”

“Well, I do have one other thing that I need, other than the money.”

“What is it?” I ask, annoyed. She has a lot of nerve to ask for anything else from me.

“I need a place to stay for a little while, at least while I figure out what to do about this baby. I can’t exactly let people know right now who the father is, and I’ll need a safe place to raise him while he’s a baby. I’d like to stay with you in your house for a year, and then at the end of the year I will take the money and move on. That way you’ll have me under your roof so if I go back on my word, you’ll know where to find me. I won’t be able to just disappear with a newborn baby. Plus, we will have to figure out how you can transfer the money to me without it looking suspicious. If we do it over the course of a year then it will be less suspicious, and you can even hand me cash over time since we will be under the same roof.”

I let out an exasperated sigh. “Let’s assume for a minute that I am even considering letting you live in my house with your little affair baby that you had with my husband. What exactly are we supposed to tell people about who you are?!” I ask.

“Well if you don’t want to go to jail for attempted murder then you’ll consider it,” she says flatly. "What you decide to tell people is on you. According to Erick you didn't have many friends anyways, so who would really notice?"

“Or I’ll go to jail and my inheritance will sit in my bank account and my house will be sold and you’ll have nothing,” I fire back at her. She’s acting like she has the upperhand here, but if I just admit to the crime anyways, she will get nothing and I'll just go to prison most likely.

“You know that you need me if you have any chance of staying out of prison. I know you don’t want to spend the rest of your life in prison. And if you don’t agree to my terms, that’s exactly what will happen to you. I'll make sure to testify against you, I'll give the police the video, and then I will be right back where I started with no money lost or gained, and I will have my freedom. You, on the other hand, will have no way to spend the money from inside a jail cell. Your freedom means more to you than the money and I think we both know that.”

I breathe deeply in and out, weighing my options. “So then how would we do this? Who would you be to me, and what am I supposed to tell people about you and the baby?"

Only the police are going to know that I was involved in therapy with you and Erick. Everyone else won’t know who I am. You can just tell people that your big house was feeling lonely after your husband died, so you decided to rent a room to a single mom in need. That’s not untrue. People don't even have to know that we knew each other before his death.”

The idea of living with my dead husband’s side chick and their newborn baby makes me sick. But do I have any other choice?

“So, do we have a deal?” she asks.

“I guess so,” I say.

“Great,” she smiles.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

ONE YEAR LATER

Julie

It looks like everything worked out in the end. It did take some convincing for the police to agree to drop the murder charges against me. I never admitted to the crime and as far as I know, Eleanor and I are the only ones left who know what happened. But with Eleanor backing up my story and finally admitting that Erick did tell me he had cancer, it led a little more credibility to my side of events.

In fact, the police developed a new theory that Erick must have killed himself, probably out of guilt for everything that he had done. Eleanor told them that he admitted to her that his journal entries were a lie, and that he was trying to set me up for murder on purpose. Eventually they thought that Erick was some sort of suicidal lunatic who purposefully starved himself and faked an illness, only to off himself once he realized his plan was caving in on itself. I was perfectly okay with that theory, and technically it’s half true anyways. With Eleanor and I both telling the police that he was crazy and abusive, it was two live voices against one dead guy. I guess it's true that two can only keep a secret if one of them is dead.

I still think Officer Sorento is skeptical of me. But I don’t even care now that they’ve dropped the charges. I still wake up in the middle of the night sometimes having nightmares about the police coming back to arrest me again. But over the last year, those nightmares have gotten fewer and farther in between. At this point I feel like I can finally breathe again, and like everything worked out.

Life certainly looks different now than it did a year ago. It turns out that Eleanor isn’t as terrible of a roommate as I thought she was going to be. We’ve spent the last year enjoying our time together and have become sort of good friends. Apparently nothing bonds two women together quite like being abused by the same guy.

There’s been one other big development since that conversation with Eleanor almost a year ago. It turns out that Eleanor and I had more in common than we thought. I found out I was pregnant a few days after the police cleared me of the criminal charges.

With all the commotion and distractions, I hadn’t even realized that my period was super late. I took a pregnancy test the day that Eleanor moved into the house, and was shocked to learn at a doctor appointment that I was almost three months pregnant. Eleanor was about five months along with her baby at the time, so we weren’t even that far off. The thought was a little weird, but once I put it out of my mind that we were carrying babies from the same guy, it wasn't that weird anymore.

At the time, I didn’t understand how the pregnancy could have been possible. Erick and I had pretty much stopped having sex in his last few months considering he was so weak. I can only remember a couple times that I initiated it only because I was in the mood, and I pretended it wasn’t him the whole time. And I never thought to check for a pregnancy because we had never gotten pregnant before despite trying for years. Once Eleanor told me that Erick had admitted to slipping me Plan B in my smoothies, it made a lot more sense. What an asshole! He let me believe I was infertile for four years! I had stopped drinking those smoothies that he was making me in the mornings because they always tasted so bad when Erick made them, and I would just dump them down the drain in his last few weeks and just tell him I was drinking them. So he thought the whole time that he was slipping me Plan B each morning, and I thought I was infertile. So that explains why I was suddenly pregnant.

Of course I had to hide the pregnancy from everyone. That was easy to do since I have cut off ties to everyone at this point. My mom called to apologize and try to get back into my life, but I wouldn’t even hear it. I told her that if she genuinely thought I was a murderer and refused to bail me out of jail when I needed it, then she was no mother of mine. I don’t need them anyways. I got my money and now I can do whatever I want with it. Well, with my half of it.

Now Eleanor’s baby boy and my baby boy are being raised sort of like brothers. I guess that’s technically true since they both share the same father. They both look just like Erick, unfortunately. At first I was skeptical that Eleanor might be lying to take advantage of me and that her baby wasn't Erick’s. Like maybe she made up the whole thing about sleeping with Erick because she saw a grieving widow with money and wanted to take advantage of me. But after her son was born, I no longer questioned it. The resemblance is absolutely there, and now I have no doubt that it's Erick's baby. At one point she even offered a DNA test but I told her there was no need.

She wanted to name her baby Erick Jr., and I was thrilled when she picked Michael instead. Michael was Erick’s middle name, so she’s still sort of taking a name from him, but at least I don’t have to hear the name Erick every day. I still don't know why she cared so much to give her baby a piece of Erick's name considering that she didn't actually like him, but I think she was just trying to make a point that it is definitely Erick's baby, even though I believe her now.

I named my baby boy Garrett. It’s a name that reminds me absolutely nothing of Erick. Michael and Garrett are two happy baby boys, and it’s working out well to be raising them with Eleanor since we both take turns with the normal parenting tasks for babies. Usually I am the one taking more turns than she is, but I don’t mind at all. I have started to love both Michael and Garrett equally, as if they were both mine.

I ended up quitting my job after I got the money. Even with Erick blowing part of the money that we got as an advance from my mom, and even with me getting only half of what was left, it was still way more than I expected it to be. It turns out that my parents lied to me about the amount that I was going to receive, and I got significantly more than I was expecting. I'm not surprised that my parents didn't tell me the truth about the amount, because I don't think I would have even bothered to pursue a career if I knew I was going to get this type of life-changing money.

I know Erick’s mom would roll her eyes at me and tell me she’s not surprised that I quit my job, but that bitch doesn’t know anything about my life anymore so I don't care about her opinion. I never did care about her opinion actually. I haven’t talked to Erick’s mom since that phone call after I got bailed out of jail, and that’s just fine with me. I cut off everyone and even deleted social media so that no one could follow me. I still check Erick’s mom’s social media pages once in a while. She's a boomer so she doesn't know to set her profile to private, so anyone can see whatever she is posting. Or maybe she knows that everyone can see and is secretly hoping that I'm out there lurking on her page. But in any case, she still sometimes will randomly post about how sad it is that her son got married to a bitch like me and that she still "knows the truth" about "what really happened to Erick." Maybe she does know the truth, but it's too bad she'll never be able to prove it. She just wants the sympathy points. I can only imagine how quickly she’d be at my door if she finds out that she has a grandson that is comprised halfway of Erick. Two of them for that matter. Although I’d love to see her find out about Eleanor and her own half-Erick baby, Eleanor and I have agreed to never tell anyone the truth about who Michael is.

Today I’m actually watching Michael and Garrett while Eleanor is out. I don’t know where she goes all day, but I have been doing a majority of the childcare responsibilities, which is just fine with me. I seriously love both of these kids like my own. Who knew that I’d feel fulfilled by killing my husband and quitting my job and changing diapers all day?! Motherhood has been hard but it has been amazing after waiting years to have a baby, and then suddenly getting two babies. This is truly the life.

I am preparing to take the boys down to the park. Even though they’re too young to play on the playground equipment, I still like to sit on a picnic blanket with them and enjoy some quality time outside. It doesn’t even bother me that I never know when Eleanor is going to be back. I am perfectly fine to take care of the boys while she is out.

As I head towards the door with both babies in their double stroller, my eyes pause as I see the guest bedroom. The door is almost never open because Eleanor closes it when she goes out, but today it is wide open. I walk over to the doorway and peer into the bedroom. It’s empty, except for the guest bed and dresser. I know I don't get to see the inside of Eleanor's room that often, but it's really weird that all her stuff is missing. Normally she's not that tidy, so I expect to see her clothes strewn around or at least to see something left out. Instead, it looks almost as though no one has ever lived in here.

“Eleanor?” I call out. I frown, wandering around the downstairs. “Eleanor?” I call again.

My eyes land on a piece of paper sitting on the countertop in the kitchen. I leave the stroller in the entryway and walk over to the paper, where I immediately recognize Eleanor’s handwriting.

Julie,

You are way too trusting. You should have known that we weren’t just going to live happily ever after like some sort of sister wives. I’ve taken what was left of the money, except for enough to get you a couple years of expenses. I’m sure you’ll figure out work later.

I’m leaving you with Michael. He is now yours to care for and raise as your own. You basically have been the one raising him anyways. I just can’t look at his face anymore; it reminds me of Erick. You can have both babies since I know that’s all you’ve wanted.

I’m sorry I had to use you like this. But look at it this way… we both got what we wanted from Erick. I have the money, and you have two beautiful babies to raise.

And the best part of it all is that Erick is dead.

Don’t try to find me; you won’t be able to.

Burn this letter after you read it.

Best wishes

Eleanor

P.S. - I still have a copy of the video. I won’t use it unless you make me.

I stare at the paper, speechless. Anger bubbles up inside me as I try not to lose my mind. How dare she just leave without even saying goodbye! And she took most of the money! And now she just expects me to raise her kid for her?! The one she made with my husband? It's true that I wanted multiple kids, but not this way!

Realistically, I knew that our arrangement couldn’t last forever. Our agreement was only for a year anyways, but I never mentioned having her leave even though it has been a year now, and just assumed she would stay as long as the situation worked for her.

I take multiple deep breaths, trying not to lose my mind as I read the letter over and over again, hoping that I’ve read it wrong. After everything that I’ve done for her, this is how she treats me?! She just leaves a note and bounces without a trace?!

I guess she’s technically not wrong. We both did get what we wanted from all of this. Erick is dead so he can't abuse me anymore, Eleanor has the money that I don’t even need, and I have two babies to raise as my own. It's not cool the way that she did this, but this is honestly the life that I have been dreaming of for years.

This truly was the perfect murder, and I got away with it.

EPILOGUE

FIVE YEARS LATER

Julie

After Eleanor left, it was great to raise both boys as my own, at least at first. But then I started to get a little stressed out thinking that someone was going to find out about the kids and come take them away. I also kept thinking that Erick's family would come try to kill me or something. It was clear to me from my last conversation with Erick's mom that she still blames me for Erick's death, even though I was found not guilty.

I started realizing that I had nothing, other than the two boys. I had no friends and no family support system. All I really had was the remaining money that Eleanor left behind, which seems like it's really only enough to start over somewhere else and then I will still have to work. But I always intended to work anyways.

I came up with a new plan to start a new life. But to start over as someone else, I needed to get rid of the person formerly known as Julie. I got an idea from watching one of those murder documentaries where a woman basically faked her own death by taking a bunch of blood from her body and disappearing. No one would ever find her body, but she was assumed to be dead based on the amount of blood.

It was fairly difficult to pull off because I hate needles, but I still drew my blood every other day for a few weeks until I had enough. I took some iron supplements to make sure I was building up enough red blood cells, but I did start to feel lightheaded at the end. An adult woman has about 4.5 liters of blood in her body, and generally can't survive after losing more than 40% of that. So I knew I needed to take a lot of blood, but I also knew that I couldn't do it all at once.

I started drawing my blood a few weeks ago and storing it in the garage. Once I had enough blood, it was showtime. I couldn't take anything with me, but I also couldn't let it be known that I have the two kids. I already got a rental car under a fake name, and I guess I won't be returning it. I'll have to ditch it down the line. But for now, I pack all the boys' things into the rental car and situate them in their car seats. They both ask me what we are doing, and I tell them that we are going on a trip. They seem to accept that answer. I give them snacks and tell them that mommy will be right back.

I leave the car running and head back inside. I take the vat of blood that I have collected and dump it straight onto the living room floor. I watch it pool from the rug and spread onto the hardwood floors. It looks kind of like Hershey's syrup. I frown at it, wondering if it's going to look like fresh blood. I took a good amount of it fresh from my body this morning, so hopefully it's enough fresh blood to convince the police that it is fresh.

I pick up the phone and dial 9-1-1. It reminds me of the last time I called 9-1-1 five years ago when Erick died. But this time I'm calling to report a much different crime. This time I'm calling to report my own murder.

When the dispatcher picks up, I start screaming into the phone. "Help me! Help me! They're coming for me!"

"Do you need police, fire, or EMS?"

"Police! Please come! They are trying to get me!" I yell into the phone. I breathe heavy like I've been running.

"What is the address of your emergency?"

I give her the address in gasping breaths.

"Ma'am, tell me exactly what's going on there," the dispatcher says, and I hear more sounds of typing.

"They're coming to get me! Please hurry!"

"Who is coming to get you?" the dispatcher asks.

"I think it's my late husband's family! They hate me! And now they're coming for me!"

I hear more typing, and then she speaks again. "Can you get to a safe place?"

I start screaming like I've never screamed before, and then click the phone off. I'm sure this will traumatize the dispatcher lady, but I don't really care.

I take one last glance at the blood on the floor. It has spread out quite a bit, so it looks like even more blood. This should definitely be enough to make my point. Then I turn and sprint to the rental car.

"Alright boys, let's go on our adventure!" Michael and Garrett are in the backseat happily snacking on goldfish crackers. I pull onto the roadway and drive off quickly before the police can come. I imagine the police will have a good time trying to figure out where my body is. They will know that no one can survive losing that much blood, and they will assume that I am dead somewhere and that the murderer hid the body. And of course they will blame Erick's family because I told them to. The thought of it makes me laugh because they deserve it. I don't think they will actually arrest anybody for my murder, but it's still funny that they will be questioning Erick's family about this. I imagine his awful mother having a heart attack after the police show up at her door and tell them I'm dead.

A few days later, we are getting settled into our rental home a few hours away. We stopped in a random small town in a place where nobody I've ever known will find me, and decided this would be a good place to start over and raise two kids.

It really wasn't that hard to get fake identities. I used the local library computers to search for it and was surprised to see that people actually advertise these services. We all have new names now and new social security numbers that come with their own backstory. I'm no longer Julie Miller, but instead chose the name Violet Armstrong. It kind of sounds like a stripper name, but that's okay with me because it just means that no one from my previous life will think anything of it. I also dyed my hair, even though I'm sure no one would recognize me anyways. It's been years since anyone that I used to know has even seen me. I only had to change the boys' last name and not their first names because no one really knows who they are anyways. So now they are Michael Armstrong and Garrett Armstrong.

Both boys start Kindergarten today at their new school. I had them enrolled just as soon as we got to our new place, so that we can finally start our new life together and act like a normal little family.

"Okay, boys. Do you remember your last name?"

"Armstrong," they both repeat in unison. I'm not confident that they even knew too much about their previous last names anyways, considering they are only five years old.

"Good job," I smile. "And what is your birthday?"

"April 14," they both say in unison.

"Perfect," I say, smiling. The truth is that April 14 is only Garrett's birthday. Michael's birthday is February 10. But they don't need to know that. I need them to be twins because having two kids born two months apart is going to be hard to explain. Plus, they look enough alike to pull it off. Like two mini Ericks.

"Okay, have a great first day of school! Remember that I will be on campus working if you need me. Remember that we don't talk about our old house, okay?"

"Okay," they say. They look confused, but they ultimately agree with me. Luckily the boys are really good at following directions, and I think they will keep the secret quiet. Eventually they will forget that we had any life other than this one.

I had to find work since Eleanor skipped out with most of the money, but I ended up getting a teaching job at the Elementary School where the boys attend school. So far everything has been great, and the boys are doing well with their new last names. They've thought they were brothers anyways since they don't remember Eleanor, so it wasn't hard to pass them off as twins. And when Michael randomly asked if he had a daddy one day a couple years ago, I only told him that he used to have a daddy but that his daddy was gone forever. I imagine they will start asking more questions about that later and I'll have to have a good story prepared to explain everything, but for now I'm getting away with just giving them vague information about their dad.

I watched the news this morning in my bedroom alone. I didn't want the boys to see it. I watched as a picture of my face scrolled across the screen with the word "MISSING" above it. The police did believe that they were looking for a dead body at this point, which means I did a good job tricking them with the blood. But they aren't going to find Julie Miller's body, because that bitch is dead, and it was truly the perfect murder.