My Wife Is Missing(107)

“You want my confession? How about yours? What happened to us? Yeah, I made a mistake. I should have been honest with you about a lot of things. I know that’s true. But there’s no coming back from what you’ve done. Now, give me that knife, Natalie, before this gets so much worse for us both.”

Michael lunged forward, believing he’d catch Natalie by surprise, snatch the blade from her grasp before she did something she’d later regret. With his anger still burning hot, Michael wasn’t thinking that his movement might be seen as threatening, intimidating, violent even. He was so focused on the knife, so utterly consumed with indignation, that he failed to take notice of how, in those moments, Natalie’s demeanor went through a dramatic shift. Fear now overtook her.

He didn’t give this shift much consideration, nor did he process what it meant when she put one foot behind her as if to brace for an attack while at the same time bringing the knife forward in defense.

One moment he was lunging at her, and the next Michael felt a strange sensation ripping through his belly. He came to a complete stop as a gushing warmth began to escape him. A sharp pain radiated from his stomach outward, and he tottered unsteadily from one foot to the other. His blurring vision made it difficult to regain his balance. He glanced down at the black knife handle now protruding from his belly, but could see no sign of the attached blade, which was now buried deep in his flesh.

Michael dropped to his knees, feeling nothing as he struck the floor hard. He gazed up at Natalie feeling utterly helpless and confused. With every heartbeat blood oozed out of him, turning his white shirt dark crimson. An irregular splotch formed, the knife handle in its center, growing larger by the second.

He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t hold a clear thought. Shock and pain had come forward to take center stage. From somewhere far away it seemed he heard a scream, a voice calling out his name, a sound that echoed in a vast chamber of nothingness, washing over him in waves.

Natalie sank down to kneel before him, her eyes welling. He felt her hand brush against his cheek, but couldn’t take in any warmth from her touch. Cold was rooted in his bones.

“Michael,” she said, sounding shocked. She cupped his head in her hands as she gently lowered him to the floor, down onto his back.

Natalie, he realized. This is my wife Natalie peering down at me. He felt weightless in his own body, rising up, drifting away, less anchored than a helium balloon.

“Michael, please, please hold on, help is coming. I called for help. I thought you were going to hurt me … I didn’t mean to, I didn’t.”

Her voice broke. She covered her mouth with her hands, but he could see her hot tears flowing like jeweled rivers down pale cheeks. He reached up to touch her face, wipe those tears away. It’s okay, he wanted to say, but couldn’t voice those words.

“You feel cold,” she said anxiously, rubbing his skin to warm him.

He should have been afraid. He was feeling colder by the second. It was getting harder to breathe too, but something kept him going, a notion he had that it wasn’t time to give up and fade to the black.

There was something he had to do.

Natalie continued pleading with him, urging him to hold on. Her voice grew fainter, until all he heard was a high-pitched whine.

He was dying. There was no question about it. Death was coming. It was near. But there was something he had to do before he let go. What was it? What?

He saw visions of light dancing before his eyes, the faces of Addie and Bryce coming in and out of focus. A flood of memories played about in his mind like a scattering of confetti, each piece containing a fragment of his story, a sensation, a feeling he had stored away for reasons unknown. A piercing pain radiated out across his body in all directions, the epicenter of it at his midsection, but even that couldn’t eclipse the anguish he felt at not being able to do that one thing he was supposed to do before the blackness came to get him.

I need to help her, he thought. I have to do what’s right.

Save her.

I’m dying.

“Michael, I’m so sorry…”

She was standing over him. People were entering the room in a frantic rush. They came to his side, kneeling down, pressing on his wound, saying things he didn’t need to hear, taking vital signs, calling out numbers. All the while, he continued to take stock of his fading life.

I should have done more with the time I had.

“Michael, please don’t go.”

He heard her voice, like the call of angels. Yes, of course. He owed her something, didn’t he? He could save her. He was glad there were people there. They’d bear witness to what he had to say, his final confession.

The truth doesn’t matter now.

He waved his hand weakly, beckoning for her to lean down, to come to him, get close, put her ear to his lips. He remembered the scent of her. Time was running out. Soon, he thought. Soon I’ll go. But first—

“Natalie,” he whispered in her ear, lifting himself up off the floor ever so slightly, wincing against the pain, his voice strained and weakened like his fading pulse. “Listen to me, listen carefully. I’ll help you.” Michael hissed out the words. “Kennett.” He remembered that name and then remembered another. “He has the wrong person. It’s not you. It’s me, Natalie. It’s me. I did it. I killed Audrey.”

There.

All better now.