We’re finished. I’m too tired to go again, so cuddling and falling asleep wrapped in his arms, his intoxicating scent surrounding me, just like his body, sounds nice. In fact, that sounds better than another fuck.
“That was amazing,” I say, catching my breath and laying my head on his chest, not even caring that it’s a bit sweaty.
“I’ll say. I didn’t think anyone could beat my wife, but you, my dear—I’m pretty sure you just did.”
“Am I supposed to say thank you?” I ask, not angry, or even frustrated. I don’t care; instead, I’m only making playful conversation.
“I should stop talking about my ex-wife, shouldn’t I? Or at the very least, comparing your sexual prowess.”
“That would be good,” I say.
“Your ex was better than me, wasn’t he?”
I laugh. “What’s so funny?” he wonders aloud.
“You’re much better than my ex. This whole night. It’s been so stress-free. I can’t remember ever feeling this alive.”
“Well, I would hope I don’t make you feel dead,” he jokes.
He has no idea how much being around death has made me feel like I am also six feet under. I secretly adjust my wig and before I know it, I am fast asleep.
I wake with a start. A glance at my phone reveals that it’s noon.
I roll over to find that Ron is gone. Where is he? Did he figure out who I am? Is my wig okay? I briefly feel around my head and believe everything to be fine.
I get up, put on my clothes, and look around for a note or some sign of Ron himself.
I walk down the spiral staircase. His house is lovely, with a nice foyer and a large chandelier. Last night, with few lights on, to maintain the ambiance, a few drinks in us, and other things on my mind, I’d noticed little more than the kitchen. When I walk into it, I examine details I failed to notice last night.
I also find Ron, hovering over his coffeemaker.
“Good morning . . . or afternoon,” he says.
“Yes, good afternoon. Don’t you have to work?”
“My schedule is flexible.”
“Okay,” I say, not sure what to make of that. Perhaps now I’ve traded my mundane life and husband for some white-collar criminal. A mobster. A Ponzi schemer. A drug lord. He doesn’t seem like any of those things, but something’s up, and I don’t plan on sticking around long enough to find out what. Although it is tempting to become a real-life Bonnie and Clyde.
“I was trying to make coffee for us,” he says, pushing some buttons on the machine, “but the truth is, I usually go to Starbucks, so I’m not really sure how this thing works.”
I laugh. If Dave had done this, I’d have wanted to kill him. It’s rather endearing with Ron.
“Here, let me show you,” I say, walking over to him and the rogue coffee machine. I successfully get it to make coffee, using my years of experience as a boring suburban housewife.
Ron turns his back to me while I work on the coffeemaker, the newspaper occupying his attention. He seems zoned out, in his own little world, so as much fun as last night was, I know this is my opportunity. I carefully grab a heavy cast-iron skillet from the rack hanging over the island. To my relief it doesn’t clang against the other pans.
I brace myself, planting my feet on the hardwood floor, and lift the skillet over my head. Thwack! I hit Ron square in the back of the head. He falls instantly to the floor. I take a moment to admire my handiwork, but know I need to return to business quickly, because he’s not dead yet.
I retake my stance and whack him a couple more times with the skillet. When I believe him to be sufficiently dead, the skillet falls out of my hands and I stand there a moment, trying to catch my breath, both the physical and mental activity having worn me out. Once I can breathe again without feeling like I am going to pass out, I lean down and check for a pulse.
Nothing.
I let out a sigh of relief.
Chapter 24
Kate
I go for a drive after Margaret Moore’s verdict is read. I’d already called in sick, so why head in now. Of course, now I do feel sick. I haven’t said a word since hearing the verdict. There’s nothing to say.
I’m not surprised, necessarily. She’s a psychopath, but looks like the nice lady you randomly strike up a conversation with in line at the grocery store, so we, particularly the twelve people sitting in that jury box, believe she didn’t do it. If I didn’t know better, wasn’t so closely entwined with this case, I’d have agreed with them.
But I do know better. I’ve seen the real Margaret Moore. I’ve seen the look deep in her eyes that tells a completely different story than the one coming out of her mouth. Those people didn’t see that, thanks to the high-powered lawyer that will hopefully bankrupt her. That’s the least karma can stick her with. It would also be okay with me if she got hit by a bus, car, semi—whatever. That’s mean, I know, and I’m not a mean person. To think that she’s free in this world, though, that’s scary. It scares me personally that she is free, but I guess I need to try to move on with my life. Why would she give up her freedom to come after me?
I’m not ready to go home, so I grab a smoothie from my favorite shop and go sit in the park and drink it. The late-afternoon sun is almost too hot, but I relish it, the comforting
