Lies She Told(80)

The realization hits me like a gut punch. He’s read my story and convinced himself that it’s a retelling of my crime.

“It’s a story,” I plead. “It’s only a story.”

Though I catch the hand in my peripheral vision, I can’t calculate the trajectory fast enough. It lands on his laptop, flinging it across the desk and onto the floor. Metal parts rattle. The bottom panel breaks off and skitters across the hardwood with the screech of an oncoming subway car.

“Liar.” He turns my chair, wresting my attention from the ruined computer. A fist rises toward my face. He’s been building up to this. I shut my eyes. “You’re a fucking liar.”

I don’t protest. He’s right. Blurring fact and fantasy is my trade. I am a con artist. A prevaricator. I make up stories. So why does he think this one is real?

The chair careens backward, smashing into the side of the bed. “You’re going to pay for what you did to him.” Tears tracks stain his cheeks. He wipes them away with the back of his arm. “I’m going straight to the cops.”

He storms from the room. My gun is out there. He will tell police that I brought him the murder weapon, intending to admit to my crime. He may even believe it.

“I didn’t do anything,” I shout as I follow him. “Please, just wait a minute. Let’s talk about this. Why would I kill Nick?”

He stops in the hall, right before it opens up into the main space. Dining area on the left, kitchen on the right. He can get to the front door through either the kitchen or the living room. He can only get to my gun if he chooses left.

“Why?” He whirls to face me. “To keep me! You thought I’d stay closeted if he was gone.”

“That’s not true. I didn’t know you were gay. I didn’t even know Nick was gay.” I approach him and touch his arm. “Please. Think for a moment.”

He recoils from my hand as though it’s coated in Nick’s blood. “Why are you still lying? I read the book. You saw us at the restaurant. I know—”

“It was just dinner, David. Just a made-up dinner at a made-up restaurant. I never saw you and Nick.” I slip past him, stride into the dining room, and stand in front of the glass table, positioning my body to block the gun. I wasn’t expecting David to be in denial. I can’t show him the murder weapon until he is ready to accept responsibility.

He is watching my face, scowling at me rather than looking at the table.

“It was Italian.”

“Half of the restaurants in the city are Italian.”

“No!” David screams the word. “The river? The fact that he was shot? Bludgeoned? You . . . you did it. You . . . It can’t all be coincidence.”

A warm breeze brushes my back. The French doors are cracked to circulate the air in the stuffy apartment. I debate throwing them open, screaming for help. I can’t trust David to listen to reason in this state, to not hurt me.

“I knew that you were looking for Nick and that the police were searching the river,” I explain. “That was in my head while I was writing. That’s why the body ended up in there in my story.”

“No.” David shakes his head as he advances toward me. I see the doubt in his eyes, though. He wants me to convince him of my innocence as much as I’d wanted him to tell me he hadn’t meant to frame me.

“What about your gun?” he asks.

I step to the side, revealing the weapon on the table. “I found it buried at the house.” I speak slowly, watching David’s eyes open wider with every word. “You hid it in the same place that I got rid of the weapon in Drowned Secrets.”

“What are you talking about?”

“David, I didn’t kill Nick. Don’t you see? You must have done it.”

“No. You’re crazy.”

“I guess you took my gun because you were concerned going into Nick’s bad neighborhood and—”

“No.” His voice is louder now.

“You and Nick got into a fight and you were already conflicted about coming out. Maybe he threatened to tell me or he said he’d leave if you didn’t choose him. I don’t know. Maybe he broke up with you for not asking for a divorce fast enough.”

His lips pull in and press together. He shakes his head.

“You must have shot him, David. It’s the only explanation.”

“No.” He lunges at me and grasps my arms. “Stop it.” A vein pops from between his eyebrows. His face is red with blood and fury. “I am not crazy. I did not kill Nick. I loved him. I loved him! I did not kill Nick.”

Every word feels like a punch to the back of my head. He keeps holding my arms, screaming into my face. “I loved Nick. I loved him!” Suddenly, he releases me and grabs the gun off the table. He aims it, point blank, at my chest. “You lying bitch. You did it. You!”

The sight of the gun barrel between my breasts spurs an animalistic flight response. Before I realize it, I am running. Blood rushes to my extremities as I round the table and backtrack from David toward the balcony doors. My hand flails as I reach for the knob and throw it open.

I step onto the one-foot balcony. Wind takes my hair and twirls it around my neck, whips it in my face. For a moment, I consider letting it take me, falling backward and floating on air, far away from this mess of a life.