But a podcaster dragging the case into the public eye, five years later, doesn’t exactly improve my life.
I’m making the apology chicken, because my former coworkers aren’t the only ones listening to Ben Owens’s newest season of his true crime podcast. My boyfriend, Nathan, was weird when he came home from work last night. He was late, and smelled like beer, and he wouldn’t look at me. Clearly, someone clued him in.
To be honest, I never had any intention of telling him. Nathan has almost no interest in anything besides himself. I didn’t think it would come up.
I’ve known plenty of self-absorbed men, but Nathan takes the cake. It’s my favorite thing about him. I can’t even remember the last time he asked me a personal question. When I told him that I’d been married for two years, in my early twenties, he said, “No worries, want to go to a movie?”
I’m sure he must have googled me at some point early in our relationship, but the case didn’t generate national media attention, and I was never actually arrested for the crime, so you have to do a tiny bit of digging to find me. That is way too much effort for Nathan.
But now, thanks to my least favorite podcaster, murder is the very first thing that pops up when you google “Lucy Chase.” So I’m making apology chicken and preparing to get dumped. Immediately after getting fired.
To be fair to Ben Dipshit Owens, Nathan and I probably wouldn’t have made it more than another month or two, even without a surprise murder thrown into the relationship. We’d only been dating for three months when he offered to let me move in with him. My lease was up, and we were still in the sex-all-the-time phase of our relationship, so it seemed logical. I was there every night anyway.
Unfortunately, that phase ended about two weeks after I moved in. I’m pretty sure Nathan regretted his decision, but he’s the kind of guy who avoids conflict at all costs. So, we’ve been awkwardly living together for two months now, even though I’m pretty sure neither of us is all that thrilled about it.
Let this be a lesson to all the men out there who can’t handle conflict—man up and dump your girlfriend, or you might end up living with a suspected murderer indefinitely.
The front door opens, and Brewster runs over to greet Nathan, tail wagging.
I’d be lying if I said that Brewster’s little furry yellow Lab face didn’t factor into my decision to keep living with this man. He may be a deeply average dude, but he has great taste in dogs.
Also, decent taste in apartments. The recently renovated nine-hundred-square-foot one-bedroom with a dishwasher and an in-unit washer/dryer is more than I’ve ever been able to afford in Los Angeles. It has these gray hardwood floors and bright white marble countertops that aren’t all that trendy anymore, but still clearly signal that you pay a monthly rent that would horrify people in most other parts of the country.
“Hi, boy.” Nathan spends a long time petting his dog, trying to avoid looking at me. “Something smells good.”
“I made chicken.”
He stands, finally glancing my way. His attention turns to the chicken, cooling on the stove.
“Great.” He loosens his tie and pulls it off, unbuttoning his collar.
I used to love watching him do that. He always stretches his neck to one side as he pulls free his top button, and there’s something really sexy about it. Every time he’d come home, I’d stop what I was doing and hop over to give him a kiss. I’d run my hands into his dark hair, perfectly combed to one side for work, and muss it up a bit, because I think it looks better that way.
He notices me staring at him and suddenly looks alarmed. “I, uh, I’m going to change.” He rockets into the bedroom like I might chase him down for a kiss.
I pull out a carving fork and knife. The chicken now seems like a bad idea. Maybe I don’t care enough to apologize.
Then again, I’m going to have to find a new place to live if Nathan kicks me out, and landlords tend to require pesky things, like proving you have an income.
I pierce the chicken just as Nathan walks back into the room. He swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing, and I briefly imagine stabbing the fork straight into his neck. It’s two-pronged, so it would leave twin bloody little holes, like a vampire bite.
My other hand is holding the knife, and I stare at him as I double-fist my weapons, waiting. I want him to say it first. He’s the one who clearly thinks I’m a murderer; he should have to say it first. I’m pretty sure those are the rules.
I stare. He stares.