I’m sitting on the hood of my car like I used to do when I was a teenager, and somehow I’m happy. Some alone time, pretending like I’m a high school student with few responsibilities and cares in the world, instead of a detective facing real life, has reset my being.
When the smoothie is gone, I take a few more deep breaths, get in my car, and go home, excited to see Emmitt, maybe make dinner with him. All of this is behind me now, and I am ready to begin the next phase of my life.
I come home the next day after a long day at the office and notice there’s a car in the driveway. Emmitt would have told me he had company coming over, wouldn’t he? It’s all right; I’ll deal with it.
I walk into the house and my world comes crashing down. My worst nightmare has come true. How did I not think of this when I saw the car in the drive?
“Kate, it’s so good to see you,” Margaret says.
Nothing comes out of my mouth in return. I just stare at her and Emmitt. Her and Emmitt. How does my boyfriend not know who she is? Okay, so she does look a bit different, with that obnoxious red wig, heavy makeup, and what looks to be some very expensive clothes I bet she stole from Saks.
“Maggie was just telling me how she used to babysit you, and how you two stayed in touch. You never told me about her,” Emmitt says.
I manage what must be the most awkward smile ever and say, “Yeah, I must have forgotten. Maggie was some babysitter,” I reply, shooting her a look that I really wish would kill her.
Emmitt pats the sofa next to him, inviting me to sit down, but I am under no circumstances going to sit down and pretend like this is okay. I’m not going to permit this woman to be in my house, to contaminate my world with her mere presence. I won’t do it.
“I was going to see if you wanted to grab dinner; it’s been such a long day, I wanted to get out,” I say to Emmitt.
“But we have a guest,” he says, smiling at “Maggie.” “I’m sorry; she’s been dealing with a difficult case,” he says, trying to explain my behavior.
“I understand. I could never be a detective. You’re so brave,” Margaret says.
“Yes, that’s me, the brave one.”
“I should go,” Margaret says.
Only she’s made a new friend in my fiancé, who says, “No, really, you don’t have to.”
“I’m going to get something to drink,” I say to Emmitt. “Would you help me?”
“Oh, allow me,” she says.
A good response fails to come to me.
I walk into the kitchen and Margaret follows, grabbing the wrapped box sitting next to her on the sofa.
As soon as I hit the entrance, I grab a knife in the rather likely event I will need to defend myself.
“Get the fuck out of my house,” I whisper fiercely, so as not to raise Emmitt’s suspicions.
“I’m not going to hurt you,” she says.
“Oh, yeah, and I’m just supposed to believe that?”
“I saw you in the courtroom, thinking you had this all figured out. I just want to let you know that I am the one who’s in control.”
“Of me?” I respond. “No, I can assure you, you are not in charge of me. I’ll get you. I will. Mark my words.”
“You’re wrong on that.”
She sets the box on the counter and leans in close to me; she’s right in my face. She grabs my hand and then moves to get a grasp on my throat, but I’m stronger than her physically, even if she has proven otherwise mentally.
Emmitt must hear some of the commotion, because he yells, “Everything okay in there?”
Margaret yells back, “We’re fine. Be right there.”
I should have said something. Screamed “no,” but I was keeping all my focus on her. I throw her to the floor and hold the knife over her. I lean down and the blade almost touches her flesh. I could end it all right her. Vigilante justice that no one would blame me for. I’d be on desk duty for a bit and then everything would go back to normal.
I shake as I fight the urge to plunge the metal into her flesh.
I stand up. “Get out of here right now,” I say sternly.
She coolly pushes herself off the floor and brushes off her dress.
“Who’s in control?” she coos.
I say nothing.
“Who’s in control?”
“I am,” I say, getting into her face and showing her the knife still in my hand.
“You just keep telling yourself that,” Margaret says.
“You fucking bitch,” I manage to spit out.
“Oh, and you’re such a sweetheart, thinking you’re going to get me. I’ll leave you and your adorable fiancé alone, so long as you let me be free to roam the world, and stop trying to wrongly imprison me. You’ll want to open that box after I leave before it starts to smell. Have a nice life, Detective. I’ll see myself out.”
She leaves. I hear her mutter something to Emmitt about how nice it was to meet him, that she has to go—how she wishes us well and hopes to see us again one day soon. Although I hear the door open and close, it fails to give me peace of mind.
Emmitt walks in. My breathing is heavy and fast, but I’ve won this small battle and feel a sense of pride rush over me.
“Your friend had to leave,” Emmitt says, failing to notice my bright red cheeks and slumped posture.
“She’s not my friend,” I reply, “that was Margaret Moore.”
“Oh my God!” he shouts. “The woman you were telling me about? The one who killed her family?” I nod. “Shit,” he continues. “How was I so stupid?”
“It’s okay. She was disguised, but I
