The Housewife(71)

She tries the door and it opens, sending her stumbling inside. I am in position, the butt of the rifle hard against my shoulder.

She straightens and laughs. “Don’t be ridiculous! You don’t have the cartridges, remember?”

“You’re sure about that?”

Her smile falters. “Yes, I’m sure. You gave me the box.”

“Except, I left one in. The gun was already loaded.”

She tilts her head, lets out a chuckle, but I can tell she’s not sure. “No, it isn’t.”

“Try me.”

She stops smiling. “So what? What are you going to do? Roy will be home soon. I know because I saw the texts on your phone.”

“I’ll tell him what you did to Deborah.”

She tilts her head. “What did I do to Deborah?”

“It was you who did things to Deborah’s face. You were a nurse at Laurel-Westlake. You knew exactly what products would ruin her beauty, and you knew how to administer them.”

She laughs. “You think he’ll believe you? I’ve been telling him I’ve seen Deborah inject herself at night in the downstairs bathroom. Then she’d complain about what was happening to her face and do it all over again, every night, making herself ugly. Drawing attention to herself. Factitious disorder, he told me. It’s a thing, did you know? Deliberately hurting yourself to bring attention to yourself.”

I shake my head, dumbfounded. “Why would you do that to her?”

She shrugs. “She was beautiful. He thought he loved her because of it. If I could take care of that side of things, he’d tire of her soon enough.” She leans against the doorjamb. “So you see, you have nothing on me.”

“What about her wedding dress?” I say. “How will you explain that?”

She gives a shrug. “I’ll say you made me put it on. You’re sick enough to do that.”

I tighten my hands around the gun. I am so close to pressing the trigger, it’s all I can do to restrain myself. But then my gaze falls on the wastepaper trash can under Roy’s desk.

And I can just make out a word, right on the edge of a crumpled sheet of paper.

Vee.

“I tell you what,” I say. “Let’s go to the kitchen and talk.”





44





I try to imagine how we must look to someone watching us through the window: Marie in front of me in Deb’s voluminous wedding dress speckled with blood, her arms raised, and me with my shotgun aimed at the small of her back. If this was a horror movie, it would be an excellent one. Chucky Finally Kills the Bride.

I direct her to sit on a chair in the kitchen. “I think all conversations should take place in the kitchen, all serious ones anyway, don’t you? The kitchen is the heart of a home.”

She sits down, her arms still up. I wedge the gun under my arm, open and close drawers, looking for rope.

“Did you know that Meredith next door barely feeds Dolores or her son, Mikey? Did you know that? You have to admit, Marie, you and me have had our differences, but I’ve never scrimped on food.” I turn to her. “You have no idea who I’m talking about, do you. ”

She stares at me under hooded eyes, globs of mascara sticking to her eyelashes. She doesn’t even know how to put mascara on properly, and honestly, why am I surprised?

I open the tall cupboard. I don’t have any rope. You never find any rope when you need it, I’ve noticed. Same with rubber bands or batteries.

Oh well. Kitchen twine it is, then.

I pull on rubber gloves, the dishwashing kind. “Can you put your hands behind the back of the chair, please? Thank you.”

“You can’t be serious.” She looks at the ball of twine in my hand. “You’re seriously going to tie me up with that? What next? Baste me in the oven?”

“Don’t tempt me.”

Still with the rifle wedged under my arm, I tie her wrists behind her. She sighs the whole time, doesn’t even resist. To be fair, the twine is so flimsy—it’s meant to tie chicken, or turkey at a pinch—she’s probably thinking all she needs to do is tug. She’s probably right, so I wrap it around her wrists over and over, each time introducing increasingly complex knots.

Then I move to her front.

I loop the twine around each ankle and around the legs of the chair. She doesn’t resist at all. I suppose there’s nothing she can do. I’ve got the shotgun.

I straighten, lean against the sink behind me, and put the rifle on the counter within reach. “How long have you worked here?”

“Two and a half years. ”

“And you don’t think that’s long enough for Roy to know you’re the love of his life?”

“I told you already. You keep getting in the way. You and your ilk. He goes for blonds. What can I say?”

“What, so you thought that if you disfigured Deborah, then he would fall in love with you? That’s quite the leap, there, Marie.”

“I hated her,” she spat. “I loved seeing her lose her mind. She deserved it.”

I think of Deb, poor Deb, thinking that Marie was a good person who was going to help her. That was always going to be her downfall, I realize now. Deb saw the best in everyone. Even me.

“Why did you do it to me too?”