The Vanishing Year(79)

“Witness protection?” This is why there was no Mick. “Wait, you killed Jared?” I stare at him. This man, this elegant, manicured man, my husband, who likes lamb only on Wednesdays and thinks that cabernet should never be drunk with pasta because they are both too heavy. He is a murderer. It’s inconceivable.

“Don’t be so shocked, Zoe. He’s not the first, he’s not the last. No one will miss him either. Just like they won’t miss you.” He flicks the syringe once more with his finger and walks slowly toward the bed. I inch backward. “It actually wasn’t even hard. He’s not that smart.”

“But . . . but if there is no Jared, and Mick is dead, you were doing these things? The vandalism, the break-in?” My voice hitches to a screech.

Technically, I am the reason my sister is dead. Technically, Jared killed her. But only because he thought she was me. My life, my choices, my mistakes. A simple case of mistaken identity, that’s what set this ball in motion. Jared was coming back for me, a revenge plot for bringing down his house of cards. Henry only continued what Jared started, after, of course, he killed him.

“Do you think I got to where I am by chance, Zoe? That my money, my life, my position is all a happy accident? Truthfully, you’ve tired me out.”

“I don’t know what that means.” I hiss it out between my teeth, kicking my foot in his direction.

“Tara used to just sit in the house and read. You? You’re out of control, running all over Manhattan, following me to the gym.” I must look shocked at this because he half-laughs. “I know every move you make. Your phone, the apartment. With technology, it’s so easy now. GPS. Cameras the size of thumbnails. How do you think I found you at Elisa’s? I know all about your dates with that little reporter, even the little sleepover—that you lied about. Every keystroke on the computer has been recorded. Everything you’ve done since you’ve lived in my home, Zoe.”

“Who’s the girl at the gym?” I spit.

He shrugs. “She’s nobody.” He means it, too. She is nobody to him.

“Caroline? The phone call? That was you, too?” I try to sit up, but my arm flails, shackled above my head and I can’t get purchase on the bed.

He stands over me, with a faint icy smile. “You’re just so out of control all the time, Zoe. You don’t listen to me. You don’t need me, not the way Tara needed me. Tara was sweet, compliant. She needed me. You are defiant. Unlovable. You’re just so fucking unlovable.” His voice is low and the words pierce my heart. He could be right. “You’re indifferent to me, Zoe. I can’t have that. It was different before, with your blissful ignorance. But you had to push, seek her out. Find Caroline. Then your sister. You ruined everything, not me. You’re never content.” His hand grips my knee and I open my eyes. He slides the needle into my thigh and depresses the plunger.

I gasp. “What are you doing, Henry?”

“You didn’t just owe me a wife, Zoe. You owed me Tara. Do you see now?” His face is inches away from mine and I can see all the pores in his skin. His breathing comes in quick rasps. He fades from view and the room wavers and spins.

? ? ?

When I wake up, the room is dark. The clock on the dresser blinks two a.m. I sit up and my arm shoots through with pain. It is numb and buzzing cold. In the dark, I hear the rustle of sheets next to me. Henry.

“I can’t feel my arm,” I mumble groggily and Henry flicks on the light. I realize I’ve been dressed in a white silk nightgown and robe that isn’t mine. It looks like a bridal negligee. I can’t lift my arms, my legs. I need to get out of here. Henry, clad in pajama bottoms and a T-shirt, holds a small key. Deftly, he lifts my arm, pinning it against the wall, while he unlocks the handcuffs and switches them. In the brief second the handcuffs are off, I make a clumsy attempt to flail, softly fobbing him in the cheek. He slaps me. Hard. My face beats a steady hot pain, and my eyes water.

“Do it again, Zoe, and I’ll kill you right now,” he spits at me. Then his expression sags, my sleepiness softening the edges of his face.

I try to focus my eyes on Henry, who is splitting and coming back together, again and again. It reminds me of watching Evelyn’s old television when she worked nights: scrambled soft-core porn channels, a flash of skin here or there, maybe a blinking Technicolor breast. I close my eyes, yellow spots and flashes of color.

When I open my eyes again, Henry is standing in front of me, naked, erect, cupping his penis. His hands move and slide up my thighs. I turn my face away and he pulls me back by my chin. I realize that I’m naked under the negligee and I kick my feet. I struggle to sit up.

“No,” I mumble. The drugs are wearing off, I think. The “No” sounds clearer to me but I can’t tell.

“Settle, my love.” Sometime in the last few minutes, he’s lit candles, turned off the lights. He lies on top of me, kissing my neck, and I push against his chest. “Goddamn it, Zoe. Just for once, be compliant.” He stands up, hastily, embarrassed, slapping at his thigh, at his flaccid failure. “This has never happened before.” He’s both apologetic and accusing; his eyes shine with hatred and he hovers over me until I think he might hit me, his fist clenched, knuckles white. I set my jaw, prepare for the punch, and close my eyes.

He turns away and dons his pajama bottoms. When he turns back, he’s holding a syringe. A quick pinch in my other thigh and my vision swims.