The Housewife(49)

“Oh, don’t you start.”

She takes a couple of steps back, pulling her bag over her shoulder. “I hope you feel better. I really do.”

And then, she’s gone.

I sit there for a moment, trying to calm myself. What am I going to do now? I could call the police myself, but without the video… Anyway, I can’t. I can’t let Roy know about me. I just can’t.

I take a breath and stand up, shake my fingers through my hair. What is it Abigail always says? All options are on the table.

I have no choice. I’ll just have to kill him.





29





I try to open the front door using the app, like I usually do, but it’s locked. I try the code again. It still doesn’t work. And I don’t have my keys on me.

Brilliant. This day is just getting better and better. Now Roy changed the code without telling me. I ring the doorbell, and Marie opens the door, her face glowing.

“You look nice,” I say. “Is Roy home?”

“No.”

“It looks like he changed the door code. So if you go out, make sure to take your keys.”

“Right.”

I take off my jacket and hang it in the closet.

She looks at me oddly. “Are you all right?”

The last person on earth I would talk to about my problems is Marie. Surely, she must know that.

“Perfectly fine, thank you.” I go upstairs, aware she’s still standing there, watching me.

In my bedroom, I drop my purse on the bed and snatch the key to the gun cabinet off its hook. I grab my key to Roy’s office, which I keep taped in my notepad under the mattress. Then I go back downstairs. Marie is back in the kitchen. When I glance past, I see that she made herself a sandwich. It’s on a plate on the table with a glass of milk.

I walk into the office and close the door. Then I take the gun out of the cabinet and maneuver it against my shoulder.

I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t nervous. For one thing, it’s heavier than it looks, and for another, I’ve never shot a gun before, let alone a rifle. But I remind myself that millions of people do it every day, so it can’t be that hard. I perch on the edge of his desk, randomly pull on a lever, push on a handle, and eventually it opens. There’s a box of bullets at the bottom of the cabinet. I grab one and slip it into the chamber. I have no idea if it’s in the right way, so it’s quite possible that I’ll shoot myself instead.

Now, the only thing left to do is figure out how to get that thing ready to fire. There’s a lever on the side. I slide it forward, and a red dot becomes visible on the metal.

There. I think that’s it. It’s ready to fire now.

I stand about six feet from the door, zero in on the handle. I’m going to just wait here for as long as it takes, and the moment that door opens, I’m going to press the trigger .

I mean, sure, it might be Marie who opens the door, in which case, extra bonus.

I take a breath. I am ready. A clock ticks in the background. It’s funny, but I never heard it before. It’s the mantel clock that used to belong to Roy’s father, all dark wood and brass. I look over my shoulder at it.

It’s one thirty in the afternoon.

For Christ’s sake.

I bring the rifle down. What on earth am I doing? Roy won’t be home for hours. I lean back against the desk. This is a stupid idea anyway. What would shooting Roy do? He won’t even see it coming. It’ll be a quick and painless death, whereas I’ll go to jail, again, forever this time, and while away the hours reading gushing obituaries about the great Dr. Davies.

I slide the lever back to where it was, put the gun back in the cabinet, make sure the box of bullets is back where I found it, and lock the glass door.

Then I go back to my room, where I take Erin’s advice and lie down.





30





I must have fallen asleep because the light has dimmed. The branches of the pepper tree tapping against the window are what wake me. I check the time on my bedside clock. It’s half past five.

I go to the bathroom and stare at my reflection. My mascara is smudged all over my face, and the spots where I rubbed so hard earlier are still red and raw.

I wash my face and redo my makeup. I brush my hair, straighten my clothes, and go downstairs.

Roy’s office door is still closed, and I’m trying to remember if I left it that way when I hear something. A low muttering. I look around. It’s coming from his office.

I tiptoe to the door and put my ear against it. He must be talking to a client because his conversation is peppered with words like, Slow down… I can’t make sense of what you’re saying…. Take a breath …

I feel my hairline prickle. Is that really a client? I stop and listen.

“Why can’t you tell me over the phone?” he asks.

A beat. And then I hear him say, “Oh, my darling.” And I think I must be dreaming. Don’t be silly, I tell myself. I’m his darling.

But then he says it again. “My darling.”





I bend down to listen through the keyhole, which is barely a keyhole anyway, more like a narrow slit, but he’s not saying much. Only short replies like, Shhhh… It’s all right…. Yes, yes, of course I’ll come…