Would it be a terrible thing to say that I hope he hasn’t achieved bliss? Would it be terrible to say that I hope he’s burning in hell right now?
Well, either way, it’s true.
And now I have to figure out my next move. As I see it, I’ve got two options:
1） Stay here and confess 2） Run
Option number one is tempting. After all, I’m already here. Inertia is powerful. And perhaps I could spin this. After all, my neighbor heard me screaming. Would anyone believe it if I told them the truth? That if Derek weren’t lying here dead, it would have been me. Him or me—that’s what it came down to.
I reach out and touch my neck. It’s still tender from where his fingers were. There will be bruises. He’s never left behind bruises before—at least not in a place anyone else could see. I can still hear his voice hissing in my face: Why are you home so early? Who were you planning to meet here?
Him or me. Maybe a jury would sympathize.
Then again, it’s not likely. Derek was well-liked by everyone in our community and also connected. He owns a business that everyone in New England has heard of. And more importantly, his family is connected. They’ve donated to every state politician currently in office, including the DA. And they never liked me. If they find out what I’ve done, they won’t rest until I’m rotting away in a prison cell for the rest of my life. They will spend every penny they’ve got to make me pay for this.
So that leaves one option: Run.
I don’t want to leave my home. Or my job at the bank. My parents are gone, but my older sister Claudia lives only twenty minutes away, and she would be devastated if I disappeared off the face of the earth. But she would understand. She knows about Derek. What he’s like.
It’s Friday afternoon. If the odds are in my favor, nobody will find out about this until Monday, when neither of us show for work. Of course, that precludes the possibility that Deputy Dwyer pays us another visit. Or my sister pops in to say hello. Or more likely, Derek’s mother comes by for absolutely no reason at all except to count all the ways I’m an unsatisfactory wife. （To be fair, this time she would be absolutely right.） I get up off the floor and look down at my husband’s body. If somebody comes into this house, I’m done. They will see him immediately, and the manhunt will begin. Derek’s mother has a key, because she likes to come in anytime she wants. The chances of me getting a three day head start are small. But maybe I’ll get twenty-four hours.
Of course, if things had gone differently, and I was the one lying on the ground right now, Derek could easily lift me up, throw me in his trunk, and toss me in a nearby body of water. Then he could come home and clean up the evidence. But I can’t do that. Derek has a good eighty pounds on me. There’s no way I could lift his body. He died on the kitchen floor and that’s where he’s staying. Attempting to do anything else will waste valuable time.
No, if I’m going to run, I’ve got to run right now.
But first, I have to change.
I run upstairs to our bedroom. I made the bed this morning, the way Derek likes, with our Seraphina Ivory Damask bedspread folded neatly over the bed and the pillows propped up and fluffed. My mother always had me make the bed when I was a kid, but I stopped doing it as an adult. Until I got married, and I realized Derek required it. And it didn’t just have to be made—it had to be made in a very particular way, according to his specifications.
I flash back to a moment a couple of months ago, when Derek walked into our bedroom and discovered that I had folded the bedspread over the pillows, rather than under. He narrowed his eyes as I felt my stomach sink.
So this is how you leave our house in the morning? he said. Looking like a pigsty?
To be fair, the rest of the house was immaculate. I had cleaned every inch myself, because Derek did not want to hire a housekeeper. He hated the idea of having a stranger in our house and insisted it was my responsibility. So in addition to my full-time job, I did all the cooking and cleaning and shopping.
I push aside the memory of the way Derek screamed at me that day. I stare down at the blankets on the bed, seized by a sudden irrepressible urge to mess them up, just to spite him.
But no. No time for that. I spited him enough by murdering him.
Even though there’s precious little time, I spend ten minutes stripping off all my clothing and jumping into the hot shower. There’s so much blood in the kitchen. More blood than I thought possible for somebody to have in their body, and I can’t risk having a drop on me. Wherever I end up, I have to look sweet and innocent. Bloody hands and crimson-speckled cheeks are not an option.