No One Will Miss Her(59)

I held the flare in my hand. Lit it. Inhaled, exhaled.

I liked to think that Pop, of all people, would understand the choices I’d made tonight. Not condone them, but understand them. This would be my last gift to him. I knew, at least, that he would be taken care of. Even after I married and moved into town, I’d still helped out here and there with the upkeep of the yard—including making sure the insurance policy stayed up to date. Pop always said we should get a cheaper one; I always insisted on full coverage. How many times had my father joked about it, how he’d make twice as much if the place caught fire as he ever would selling it? I hoped that was true. I hoped he took the payout, packed his bags, and never looked back.

Maybe I shouldn’t have. Maybe destroying everything that tied us to this town was my dream, not his.

But the fire was already lit.

The flames flickered in Ethan Richards’s open eyes, then rose to engulf him. I backed away, watching as the fire filled the cab, waiting until the nearest pile of scrap began to burn, too, before I turned my back and ran. I darted back down the corridor for the last time, wind in my ears, eyes streaming, looking above the heaps to a sky filled with millions of glittering stars. Running so fast it felt like I was flying. Not knowing what came next, and in that moment, not caring at all. Behind me, the flames began to lick higher. In front of me, nothing but the wide-open night.





Chapter 22

Lizzie





The City



Dwayne flinched as the gun went off, then staggered forward, swaying, his feet braced like a boxer’s. His mouth dropped open, and for a single horrifying moment I thought he might speak, that I’d somehow missed the mark and might have to pull the trigger again. I wasn’t sure I could do it. Worse, I suddenly wasn’t sure I wanted to. My husband stood in front of me, a tiny hole in the front of his shirt where I’d shot him. The edges of the hole were starting to turn red, and all I could think of was what he’d said to me all those years ago, the day he’d killed Rags.

I wish I hadn’t done it. I wished it right away.

But it wasn’t like that for me. Whatever I felt about what I’d done, it wasn’t anything as pure or straightforward as regret. I didn’t wish I hadn’t done it. I didn’t want to unmake my choice. I just didn’t want to make it twice.

And then I didn’t have to. Dwayne’s legs buckled and he went down in a graceless heap, pitching forward, crashing face-first into the corner of Ethan Richards’s fancy mahogany desk. There was a wet crunch as his nose broke on impact, and a second, sickening thud as he crumpled the rest of the way onto the carpet. His arms, dangling useless at his sides, never lifted to break the fall. I think he was dead before he hit the floor.

I hope that’s how it was. I hope it was quick. As angry as I was at Dwayne, who’d fucked up my life so thoroughly that he almost managed to fuck up my death in the bargain, I never wanted him to suffer. It wasn’t about desire at all. It was about survival, the realization that I couldn’t save us both, because I couldn’t save my husband from himself. The drugs, the lies, the goddamn grainy cell-phone photo of Adrienne that he couldn’t stop himself from flashing around but also couldn’t bring himself to tell me about: he would have kept on like that, until he made a mistake I couldn’t fix, one that would destroy us both. Dwayne would have fucked up and gotten caught, eventually. And if I hadn’t found the courage now to take a different path, I would have been dragged along with him, still clutching his hand as we both went down.

Letting go was the only choice.

I stood where I was for a full minute after he fell, the gun hanging limply from my hand, watching as Dwayne didn’t move, didn’t breathe. Even as the seconds ticked by, I knew I didn’t need them. After ten years of sharing a home, a bed, a life, you can tell the difference between your husband and the empty shell where he used to live. He was gone.

It was time to start telling a new story.

The buck knife was still in his pocket. I set the gun aside while I tugged it loose, clutching it to my chest.

He was there when I woke up. He had a knife.



He said he’d killed my husband.

He said he wanted money.

He didn’t know we kept a gun in the safe.

My back bumped against the wall, and I leaned into it. Let myself slide down. Watching for another minute to see if he moved—not because I thought he would, but because that’s what she would do. Inside my head, the calculating survivor’s voice continued describing an alternate, plausible version of events:

I shot him. I took the knife. I thought he might still come after me.

I took a deep breath. Then another. Gulping air, my heart starting to race, silver stars dancing and wriggling at the fringes of my vision.

I waited. When I was sure he was dead, I ran.

I ran.

I used Adrienne’s phone to call 911. I told them the address and that I needed an ambulance.

Then I hung up, cutting off the operator as she told me to stay on the line, and called a lawyer.

Not just because that’s what Adrienne would do, but because I’m not a fucking idiot.



The attorney’s name was Kurt Geller. I could have remembered it from the news stories about Ethan Richards’s almost-trial, but I didn’t have to. Adrienne kept notes for all her contacts—housekeeper, makeup, trainer. Earlier that day, I’d looked up Anna, the SoulCycle blonde; her note said, dumb bitch from SC but is Lulu ambassador. Typical of Adrienne; she didn’t have friends, just people she loathed but kept around because they might be useful to her. My own entry said, simply, lake house, and Dwayne’s number wasn’t saved at all, which confused me until I realized that she’d never needed it: she had me. All those stupid jobs she kept finding for him to do, all the times she’d asked me to send him over, and I’d nodded along like the world’s biggest asshole. She should have added a second note to my name: pimp.