The Other Mrs.(102)

“It wasn’t me who did something to Morgan, Sadie,” he says. “It was you.”

But I can’t remember it. I’m of two minds about it, not knowing if I did or didn’t kill Morgan. It’s a terrible thing, not knowing if you took another’s life. “You killed Erin,” I say, the only thing I can think to say back.

“That I did,” he says, and though I know it, hearing him admit to it makes it somehow worse. Tears well in my eyes, threaten to fall.

“You loved Erin,” I say. “You were going to marry her.”

“All true,” he says. “The problem was, Erin didn’t love me back. I don’t take well to rejection.”

“What did Morgan ever do to you?” I cry out, and he smiles wickedly and reminds me that I’m the one who killed Morgan.

“What did she ever do to you?” he quips, and I can only shake my head in reply.

He tells me. “I don’t want to bore you with the details, but Morgan was Erin’s kid sister, who made it her life’s mission to blame me for Erin’s death. While the rest of the world saw it as an unfortunate accident, Morgan did not. She wouldn’t give it up. You took matters into your own hands, Sadie. Thanks to you, I’ve come through this thing unscathed.”

“That didn’t happen!” I scream.

He’s the epitome of calm. His voice is even, not mercurial like mine. “But it did,” he says. “There was this moment when you came back. You were so proud of what you’d accomplished. You had so much to say, Sadie. Like how she would never get between us again, because you took care of her.”

“I didn’t kill her,” I assert.

His laugh is a giggle. “You did,” he says. “And you did it for me. I don’t think I’ve ever loved you as much as I did that night.” He beams, claims, “All I did was tell the God’s honest truth. I told you what would have become of me if Morgan made good on her threats. If she was able to prove to the police that I killed Erin, I would have gone to jail for a long, long time. Maybe forever. They would have taken me away from you, Sadie. I told you we wouldn’t ever see each other, we wouldn’t ever be together again. It would be all Morgan’s fault if that happened. Morgan was the criminal, not me. I told you that and you understood. You believed me.”

The look on his face is triumphant. “You never could live without me, could you?” he asks, looking quizzically at me, like a psychopath.

“What’s the matter, Sadie?” he asks, when I say nothing. “Cat got your tongue?”

His words, his nonchalance make me see red. His laugh makes me enraged. It’s the laugh, the awful, abominable laugh, that gets the better of me in the end. It’s the self-satisfied look on Will’s face, the way he stands there, head cocked at an angle. It’s the complacent smile.

Will manipulated my condition. He made me do this. He put an idea in my head—in the part of me known as Camille—knowing this poor woman, this version of me, would have done anything in the whole wide world for him. Because she loved him so much. Because she wanted to be with him.

I feel saddened for her. And angry for me.

It comes from somewhere within. No thought comes with it.

I lunge at Will with all my might. I regret it as soon as I do. Because though he stumbles some, he is much larger than me. Much stronger, much more solid. And again, he hasn’t been drinking. I shove him and he steps back. But he doesn’t fall to the floor. He inches backward, latching down on a countertop to regain his balance. He laughs even more because of it, because of my paltry shove.

“That,” he tells me, “was a bad idea.”

I see the wooden block of knives on the countertop. He follows the gaze of my eyes.

I wonder which of us will get to it first.



WILL


She’s weak as a kitten. It’s laughable, really.

But it’s time to end this thing once and for all. No use putting it off any longer.

I come at her quickly, wrap my hands around that pretty little neck of hers and squeeze. Her airflow is restricted because of it. I watch on as panic sets in. I see it in her eyes first, the way they widen in fright. Her hands clamp down on mine, scratching her little kitten claws to get me to release.

This won’t take long, only about ten seconds until she loses consciousness.

Sadie can’t scream because of the pressure on her throat. Other than a few insubstantial gasps, all is quiet. Sadie never has been much of a conversationalist anyway.

Manual strangulation is an intimate thing. It’s much different than other ways of killing. You have to be in close proximity to whoever it is you’re killing. There’s manual labor involved, unlike with a gun where you can fire off three rounds from the other side of the room and call it a day. But because of the work involved, there’s a sense of pride that comes, too, of accomplishment, like painting a house or building a shed or chopping firewood.

The upside, of course, is there isn’t much of a mess to clean.

“I can’t tell you how sorry I am it’s come to this,” I say to Sadie as her arms and legs flail and she tries pathetically to fight back. She’s tiring out. Her eyes roll back. Her blows are getting weaker. She tries to gouge my eyes out with her fingertips, but her thrust isn’t strong or quick. I draw back, her efforts wasted. There’s a pretty tinge to Sadie’s skin.