The Swap(73)

I did. Of course I did. But Max . . .

“Help me carry him to the kiln.” Freya had clearly thought this through. “We’ll say he took the boat out and never came back. No one will miss him. There’ll be no evidence.”

Could I do this? For a life with Freya, could I incinerate Max’s body?

“We’ll get a house on the beach,” she said, moving toward me. “Just the two of us. It will be everything you ever wanted.” She was almost on me, her lips slightly parted. She was going to kiss me again. I would be firmly under her spell.

And then, from under Max’s body, I heard a squawk. It was Maggie’s voice coming through the monitor, reminding us that she was there. That she was a part of this. That it would never be just Freya and me.

Freya’s eyes bore into mine, and she smiled, a very small, very cold smile. She grabbed the hammer and moved toward the nursery.

“Stop!” I yelled. At least I think I did; the word may have been screamed in my head only because it had no effect on Freya. She kept stalking toward Maggie, the bloody hammer in her hand.

And so I shot her. I had no choice.





68


If I’d had two dead bodies to deal with, this story would have a very different ending. But Max was still alive . . . unconscious but alive. It would take more than a hammer to the temple to take out a man who’d already endured so much abuse. His breath was shallow and raspy, but it was regular. He would wake up soon. I had to act fast.

Freya lay in a crumpled heap at the entry to the hall. The bullet had entered her back and lodged in her heart, killing her instantly. There was almost no blood; she had bled out internally. Even in death, Freya was perfect and pristine.

First, I had to attend to Maggie. The gun shot had startled her, and she was sobbing uncontrollably. Her wails came in stereo: from the monitor under Max’s body, and directly from the nursery. With the gun in my waistband, I hurried to her, picked her up, and rocked her gently. My presence calmed her, and soon enough, she nuzzled into my neck and fell asleep. I placed her tenderly back in her crib. Then I went to dispose of her mother’s body.

With an eye on Max, I pocketed the shell casing and wiped up the tiny pool of Freya’s blood with a paper towel. I was entirely sober now, adrenaline coursing through my system, allowing me to do what had to be done. I scooped Freya into my arms and carried her to the studio. She was such a tiny woman, but she felt remarkably heavy. I stumbled inside and went straight to the kiln room with my lifeless cargo, setting her down on the concrete floor. Freya had taught me to fire the gas kiln. It was not as simple as an electric kiln, but she insisted the results were better, especially when doing salt or soda firing. With the shelves removed, the receptacle was the perfect size for my petite victim. Max would have required dismembering; I shuddered at the thought.

I took the diamond rings from Freya’s fingers, the phone from her pocket, and placed her gently inside. Then I sealed the kiln and cranked the heat to the max, cone 10. Eventually it would reach 2,300 degrees Fahrenheit, significantly hotter than a cremation oven. Within a few hours, all that would be left of the gorgeous woman who had hurt so many people, who’d destroyed so many lives, would be a dusting of ash.

A wave of nausea hit me then, and I hurried outside to vomit behind a juniper bush. Tears streamed down my cheeks, but there was no time to fall apart. Wiping my mouth on my sleeve, I went back to the studio to turn off the lights and close the door. Freya had always insisted that all firings be monitored; gas kilns could be dangerous. But I couldn’t hang around, for obvious reasons. And the top of the line appliance had a thermocouple safety shut-off valve that would kick in eventually. I crept up to the house and peered through a kitchen window. Max was awake now, sitting on the floor with his head in his hands. He had been out for over fifteen minutes; this could be a serious brain injury. But if anyone knew how to deal with a concussion, it was Max. He’d call paramedics if he needed them. He’d summon me to look after Maggie, if he couldn’t cope. And he would wonder where his wife went.

But he would never know the truth. No one would.

? ? ?

So why didn’t I call the police? Why didn’t I tell them I’d shot Freya to protect Maggie? Because they wouldn’t have believed me. When the cops interviewed my parents, they would have told them about my “inappropriate” friendship, their sexual concerns. Thompson would have told them I was obsessed with Freya, distraught because she wouldn’t love me back. I had gone to her house drunk and with a loaded gun.

And who would believe that a woman would murder her own baby with a hammer?

Nobody.





69


jamie


As I did every morning, I poured a cup of coffee, sat at the kitchen table. and looked at Freya’s Instagram. It was an exercise in torture: seeing my former best friend on her trip to wine country, looking gorgeous on her oceanside deck, playing patty-cake with her adorable daughter. It made me feel sick, sad, and jealous. But it was the only way I could catch a glimpse of Maggie, to ensure that she was safe and thriving. Our pricey lawyer had instructed us to stay away from the trio while our petition for a paternity test traveled through the courts. Low had not fed me any information for a few days, and I was still waiting for the results from the secret DNA test. Social media was my only connection to our child.

Freya’s post, that morning, was a photo of her with the baby. But this image was different than the rest. Maggie, wearing only a diaper, appeared to be screaming. Freya, dressed in a sexy white outfit, was struggling to breastfeed her. Her expression was overwhelmed, angry, and disappointed, all at once. The caption was long and cryptic.