All Good People Here(94)

Billy felt indignation spread through him like a flame. He was the one with the right to be mad, not Dave. “Kids are hard, man. Maybe it’s a blessing in disguise—give you guys some time to get ready.”

Dave sat motionless, his eyes fixed on Billy’s. Then, to Billy’s surprise, he threw his head back and laughed. But it wasn’t the same laugh he’d had in high school, full of mirth and mischievousness. This one was hard, bitter. “Wow. You are unbelievable, Jacobs. I knew you could be an idiot sometimes, but I didn’t know you were such an asshole.” He shook his head. “A blessing in disguise? You’re the luckiest guy in the entire fucking world and you don’t even care.”

“Right,” Billy snapped. He had a job where the work never stopped. He had a wife who was restless and discontent, and a son who seemed to hate him. January was his only real bright spot, but he could already see glimpses of the teenager she’d become. In a few years, she’d stop running to him when he walked through the door. “I’m the luckiest guy in the whole wide world.”

“God,” Dave scoffed. “You have no fucking idea, do you?”

Billy stilled. “What’re you talking about?”

Dave gazed at him for a moment, then shook his head. “Forget it.”

“No. What’d you mean?”

“I said forget it.”

But a dark, nebulous suspicion was blooming at the back of Billy’s mind. “No.” His voice was hard. “Tell me what you fucking meant.”

“It’s nothing, Billy.” Dave turned to the steering wheel and twisted his key in the ignition. “Let’s just call it a night.”

“Dave, if you know something about my family, I have a right to fucking know. Okay?”

Dave heaved a sigh. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe it’s time.” He closed his eyes for a long moment. When he opened them again, he turned to Billy. “Did you ever notice how Krissy pushed me away after the twins were born? Did you ever stop to think about why?” He looked to Billy for a reaction, but Billy stayed quiet. “The twins,” Dave said. “Have you ever noticed how the twins look like me?”



* * *



—

Five minutes later, Billy wordlessly got out of Dave’s car and slammed the door behind him. He didn’t move as the sound of tires on gravel faded then disappeared. He stood in front of his home, staring up at the dark window of the bedroom where, for seven years, he’d slept next to Krissy—his lying, cheating wife. Rage radiated through his body.

He thought back to that night so long ago now, when he’d gotten down on one knee and held out his grandmother’s ring. He’d been so full of hope then, a soon-to-be father and the future husband of Krissy fucking Winter. But now he understood that her acceptance of his proposal was a lie. He’d thought she loved him, but in reality, she’d been sleeping with his best friend. He’d thought she loved him, but she’d only ever used him.

Billy walked slowly up the porch steps and through the front door, his hands flexing by his sides. Inside, he gazed around at the dark and quiet house, at the hallway lined with family photos, all of which were lies. Their entire home was a lie, their entire life. All because of her—that bitch, slut, whore.

Billy made his way into the kitchen, then froze. He’d heard something. Footsteps, soft and distant. He looked around, his gaze snagging on the basement door. It was open, swung out into the kitchen, which was odd. They never kept the basement door open. Then he heard it again: footsteps coming from deep within the house followed by the high-pitched creak of the dryer door. A fresh wave of fury erupted through him. Krissy. Apparently, his whore wife wasn’t asleep after all, and a sudden fantasy began to swirl in Billy’s mind.

What if Krissy took a tumble down the basement stairs? What if she cracked her head open against the cold concrete floor? What if she bled out down there, moaning in pain, but with no one to hear her because he and the kids were sound asleep two flights up? She was probably so doped up on her sleeping pills and wine that no one would second-guess her misplacing a step in the dark.

He closed his eyes, basking in the fantasy. All he’d have to do was slide up against the kitchen wall, hide behind the open basement door, wait for her to walk up the stairs, and then slam the door into her face. And Billy would be able to listen to her body cartwheel down the steps, would be able to crouch over her as she died and watch the look in her eyes as she realized what he’d done and why. You shouldn’t have lied to me, he’d say. You shouldn’t have used me. You shouldn’t have been such a whore.

In the dark of the kitchen, Billy shook the image from his mind. He couldn’t do that. It was absurd. And really, did he actually want Krissy to die? Or did he just want to teach her a lesson, to scare her? Once she was good and afraid, he thought, she’d never cheat on him again. Maybe she’d even stop bitching about their life. Maybe she’d actually be grateful to him—for their life, their house, their money she used to buy all her clothes and pills and wine. Maybe she’d actually put a little effort into cooking dinner, or wear some makeup, or kiss him on the lips when he came home at night.

Billy heard another creak of the dryer door, and then, without quite telling his legs to do it, he was walking quietly across the floor and slipping into the space between the wall and the open basement door. He listened as his wife’s footsteps began to ascend the stairs. And then, she was there, at the top, stepping onto the landing.