The Housewife(55)

I don’t say any of this to Erin. That should go without saying.

“I just think there’s something not right about you,” she says.

“You’re the one who’s been lying the whole time about who you are,” I mumble.

She looks around and spots her phone at the far end of the counter. “I’m going to call Roy.”

“Come on, Erin! We’re still talking, aren’t we? Give me a chance! Anyway, I told you, he doesn’t want to talk to you. He won’t pick up.”

But my heart is racing. I gave him plenty of Ambien, but did I give him enough? Would his phone ringing be enough to wake him?

Meanwhile Erin is staring at me, frozen. “Wait. Did you…?”

“Did I what?”

“Did you do something to him?”

“Of course not.”

She studies me. “I’m going to call him,” she says again.

No. I can’t let that happen. I have to stop her.

She’s standing at her enormous kitchen counter, her phone in her shaking hands.

“Put the phone down, Erin.”

She doesn’t put the phone down, but she’s shaking like a leaf. “You killed them, didn’t you. You killed your family.”

I laugh. “What an imagination you have! Of course I didn’t kill them. I just want to talk, that’s all. I want to make you see sense. He’s the murderer, Erin. Not me, okay? Don’t look at me like that. I’m not going to hurt you.” I smile broadly, showing teeth, aiming to lighten the mood, soften the moment, make her understand that there really is no need to call Roy, but it doesn’t seem to work. She’s shaking so much her neck is beginning to look like flan.

She starts to walk backward, slowly.

“You’re mad,” she says softly.

“Please don’t say that.” I put out my hand. “Give me the phone, Erin. Please.”

She lets out a strangled scream and runs away from me, through the French doors and onto the terrace.

No. No. She cannot call Roy and what if he does hear the phone? What if she wakes him up? What if she leaves a message and he hears it before I have a chance to delete it?

She’s Deborah’s sister! She’s insane!

I have to get that phone away from her.

“Erin?”

I step out through the French doors and onto the terrace.

“Erin?” And for a horrible moment, I think she’s run out to her car and she’s going to see Roy.

I feel a jolt of panic. Would Roy hear the doorbell from the office? He would if she kept her finger on it. And what if he doesn’t wake, and she goes to Meredith’s house?

“Erin?”

Silence. Not even the sound of a car starting. Just night insects and distant traffic.

“Erin, come out of your hiding place and let’s talk.”

Still silence. And it’s dark out here. I walk to the end of the terrace and peer into the darkness. Nothing .

I look around. And that’s when I see it, a sliver of gold silk trembling behind the potted palm.

A whoosh of color. A scream. “HELP ME!”

She runs past me back into the kitchen, but those vertiginous Versace sandals are not made for walking, let alone running, and Erin stumbles like a baby giraffe, her ankles folding sideways, and hits her head on the corner of the granite counter.





33





“Erin?”

I tiptoe toward where she lies, bleeding. My legs are jittery with adrenaline. I stand over her, looking down.

“Erin? Are you okay?”

She doesn’t move, not even the flutter of an eyelid. There’s blood seeping slowly from her head, staining her hair.

I need to call an ambulance. Erin’s phone has slid on the floor and is wedged under the stove. I kneel down and slide it out with the tip of my fingers.

“Erin, I’ll get you help, okay? Can you hear me? Erin?”

Maybe I should stop the blood flow first, although it does seem to have stopped all by itself.

I put two fingers on the side of her neck. Nothing.

“Erin? ”

No pulse. I bring my ear to her mouth and nose, hoping to hear or feel her breathe. Nothing.

I think Erin is dead.

I stand. There’s blood on the edge of my knees and a smudge on my hand. I take the tea towel off the stove handle and wipe off what I can.

I don’t know what to do. I could call the ambulance. And then what? I sigh, shake my head. They’re going to get me for the one murder I didn’t commit, aren’t they.

I bite the inside of my cheek so hard I taste blood. How was I supposed to know that Erin and Veronica were the same person? Veronica, I could have talked some sense into, shown her our wedding album. “Look at that cake,” I would have said. “A five-tier wedding cake made of profiteroles with vanilla pastry cream, a nut brittle, and a chocolate fountain on top. I made that cake. It took me eight hours, and I made it the night before my own wedding. Can you make a cake like that, Veronica? No. I didn’t think so. Look at those wedding photos, Veronica. Look at how happy Roy is. Can you make a man this happy? Look at me, I look like a porcelain doll. Do you look like a porcelain doll?”

But then she would probably say that yes, she can make Roy this happy, and she can order a cake, it’s not rocket science, and she may not look like a porcelain doll, but she does look beautiful and understated and sophisticated, and that’s probably what Roy wants anyway.