Killing Katie (An Affair With Murder) (Volume 1) (30 page)

A month after being shot, Steve finally came home. And what a day it was. His mother joined me and the kids as we filled the foyer with a hundred balloons—all shapes and sizes and colors—the sound of them squeaking, a few of them popping, the sudden lift of our voices filling the house with shrieks. We added long, curly streamers to the colorful montage and hung a shiny Welcome Home banner across his office door. Michael had picked that one out, insisting on the electric blue and silvery colors.

Steve’s leg would never fully recover, we learned. I quickly sensed the sadness of what he’d be losing. My husband was alive. My husband was home. But my husband would never be the same person. That last fact stung, and I could only hope that what we had could survive it.

“Charlie isn’t going to Florida,” Steve said, stuffing his mouth with cake. I leaned against him, taking him in: his smell, his vibe, his presence. I realized how much I had missed having him home. I rubbed his leg, tenderly and softly, hoping that the massage would help ease the chronic pain.

“Nerve damage,” Doctor Lu had told us. “It’s the nerve damage that is causing the pain.”

He winced. I yanked my hand back, cringing.

“Easy,” he pleaded, sighing impatiently.

I shook my head, “I’m sorry. Would a heating pad feel better?” I asked, carefully feeling around the bandage on his thigh.

“I like what you’re doing. Just softer.”

“So Charlie is staying on?” I asked, unsure if I wanted to hear the answer.

Steve nodded. There was reluctance in the motion. Regret and disappointment too. “He’s going to stay on for another two years. It’s already a done deal.”

“How do you feel about that?” I asked and then wished I hadn’t. But I found that, more and more, I didn’t quite know what to say to him. The disappointment rolled off him like a wave.

It’s the depression
, I told myself. I’d read an encyclopedia’s worth of material online about recovery’s challenges, hoping to be the best wife I could be for him.

Steve chomped on another bite of his cake, choosing not to answer. Too soon, I supposed. I didn’t push it. He offered the fork, brushing my lips with the chocolate. Teasing. I licked at the icing playfully until the grim look on his face disappeared.

“I’ll be riding the desk for a long time. A very long time—but with an occasional distraction like that, I think I can deal with it.”

We were alone in his office. I shut the door, hoping to have him to myself for at least an hour. I bit at his fork, licking it again and said in a breathy voice, “Been a while. Do you feel up to it?”

His furrowed brow lifted and he leaned in, kissing me. I moaned, hungry for more than cake. I slipped my tongue into his mouth as I unbuttoned his pants. We made love that afternoon—for the first time in what felt like forever—taking our time, rediscovering, easing back into a familiar rhythm. And in my mind, I kept my thoughts on my husband and pushed away the wreckage of my actions. Sure, I still wanted my peanut butter and chocolate, but I wanted my husband more.

The first winter snows came with the whiskers of Steve’s unkempt beard. I begged him to cut the scraggly mess, insisted he shave it. But he decided to keep it, calling it his “recovery beard.” He spent months in and out of physical therapy. When he began to drive again, he came home after one of his sessions and sat me down. I pulled a chair out from the table, my heartbeat aching in my chest as the chair legs scratched against the floor. I expected him to tell me that he knew everything, that he knew what I had done and that he blamed me for getting shot. I held my breath. He pinched at the straggle of whiskers—brown whiskers, peppered with a bristle of untamed gray—his hand disappeared into his coat, fumbling for a moment before revealing law school pamphlets. He dropped them on the table, slid them in front of me, and looked proud for following through. I tucked my finger beneath the first, lifting it open. I didn’t know what to say, and I think he was at a loss for words too. His lips peeked through his heavy beard, smiling broadly. He nodded as if to say that he’d made up his mind, that he was going to go back to school.

“We just need to figure out how to pay for it,” he said. “But I found one. I found a school that would work out perfectly for us.”

“Thank you!” I answered, planting kisses all over his face, even the itchy parts that I didn’t care for very much.

Steve eventually rode the desk job, just as he said he would, going back to work once the doctors gave their okays. He took on new cases, investigating in ways that he’d never thought of before. A small cyber crime division had opened up under Charlie, and Steve jumped at the chance to try something new. I had my reservations, though, knowing how good Nerd was and how much better others were than Steve when it came to swimming in the deep end of the Web. I thought of the red and yellow links, and what the click of a mouse button really meant. I wondered if Steve could ever unknowingly bump into Nerd. But the new position let Steve keep his detective’s shield, and it kept him safe. And what was even better, the homeless man’s case remained his—albeit unsolved. My buttons were safely hidden away in an evidence room that only Steve knew about.

Early one afternoon, I found myself on the bridge over Neshaminy Creek again. I decided to get out of the car. With the world at work, the kids in school, and the bridge empty, I had the creek to myself. Springtime was in the air, buds had started to show on the thinnest branches, and the tall piles of plowed snow had grown dark and begun to shrink. Soon they would be a memory, forgotten until the first snow of the coming year.

Gripping the rail, following the sound of passing water, I looked to where my bloody handprint had been stamped the day Katie was killed. Instinctively, I searched around me, making sure I was alone before picking up a pack of loose ice to clean the blood that was no longer there. I thought of Katie then, as the ice melted in the heat of my palm. A drop of water caught the sunlight, the shine skipping into my eyes.

I missed talking to my friend. But there was something else I missed. It took me a minute to understand what else it was—my mother. We hadn’t talked since the day of Katie’s funeral. She had listened to my demand that she stay away from my home and my family. Steve was suspicious of our falling out, and pried me with questions, but I talked around them and then fixed him just the right look, telling him to back off.

My mother did give me something that day—forewarning. I watch Snacks every day now, hoping that she’ll not fall under the same curse as I did, as my mother did. But the only drawings she shares with me are of scribbly trees and stars and the sun and the moon. And on occasion, a cow jumping too.

Who knows how many other women from our line were murderers?
Vampires are real—I remind myself of that constantly. There are some days when I don’t have to remember. There are some days I’m no longer the mother and wife I want to be. A hunger pang will come, followed by another, and soon my dreams are filled with new designs.

Water rushed beneath me, spouting white foam over jutting boulders, sinking others beneath a heavy flow. Once a year the tranquility of Neshaminy Creek is disturbed by the flood of feeder steams during the spring thaw that floods the banks and makes rapids run. I searched the stony bank and the sandy mounds, looking for any hint of my trophies. By now, my evidence had surely been washed out to a bigger river and then caught up by currents that joined other rivers, deeper, faster. And eventually to the ocean, disappearing forever.

When I made it to town, I decided to park in front of the alley—
my
alley. My fears, my reservations had been lessened by Steve taking the case. I brought out Nerd’s gift to me. A huge ring, I could only fit Needle on my thumb, and it was there that I put it. I kept the poison reservoir empty, deciding to pretend I was an assassin, keeping the dreamy thought of filling it as a new fantasy.

“But that doesn’t mean I can’t be someone else for a while?” I asked no one in particular. Then I spied an open chair at a new hairdresser next to Romeo’s. I pushed Needle back on my thumb and made my way to the salon. mr. c’s the window announced in bold gold-and-silver lettering that glinted in the light. A bell jingled, bouncing back and forth as the door closed behind me.

“Well, don’t you look ready for a change?” a short man said, his Latin accent sounding effeminate, his grin leading me to grin back.

“You’re open?” I asked, feeling insecure while he eyed me from top to bottom.

“We are. I’m Carlos—the
C
in Mr. C,” he said proudly. “What can I do for you, baby?”

I pointed to the sample hairdo pictures on the wall, and he began to go through each one, talking up which would work with my bone structure. Between his lisp and the way he stood—one foot perpendicular to the other—he was a living stereotype. I could never have made his mannerisms up.

“I like number seventeen,” I told him. He cupped his chin and shifted to his other foot, sending one pointed shoe out. He tilted his head.

“That won’t work for you, baby,” he exclaimed. I wasn’t sure if I should be embarrassed or ashamed. He came over to me, reaching his hands up, pausing to ask for my permission. I nodded, and he dove his fingers into my hair. He smelled strongly of a cologne that tickled my nose.

“What you want, baby?” he asked, stepping back.

Had he given up on me already?

My eyes wandered up to the sexy hairdos again, avoiding number seventeen, but I couldn’t find anything I liked.

“Oh, don’t bore yourself with those, honey,” he instructed, waving them off. “Those pictures are for the tittiest girly girls who only want what their man wants, anyway. Girl, tell me: what do
you
want?”

His words were inviting. His tone warm. I liked him, and wished Katie was with me. She would have liked him too. No. She would have
loved
him. I fixed him a smile, trying to show some confidence. Then I joked, “I want you to give me back eight years.”

“Ahhh,” he said and nodded his head, circling me, studying me. “You want your sexy back.” He motioned me toward his chair and winked when he brought out a pair of scissors.

“I do!” I answered excitedly. “I want my sexy back.”

“And baby, your man is gonna love this.”

I nodded eagerly, plopping down to get comfortable. I sat in his hairdressing chair for the next hour and stared back at us in an oval mirror. I watched him use his comb and scissors like an artist, trimming, combing, and shaping, taking away who I was one hair at a time. He brought out someone I had never seen before, but had known my entire life.

I spun Needle on my thumb as I left, liking the feel of the thick metal against my skin, the feel of death touching me. I was growing more comfortable wearing it, having put my friendship ring where it belonged—in the ground with Katie so it could stay together with hers forever. A breeze rushed over the skin of my bare neck, giving me a chill. I hurried inside the library, not remembering when I had last worn my hair so short. The skirt I was wearing didn’t help, but I had wanted to go for leggy and beautiful today, uncertain of where my free afternoon was going to take me. And now I had the hairdo to match.

I waved to the older librarian as her eyes appeared above her glasses. She did a double take and then smiled, recognizing me. When she stretched to get up from her chair, I stopped her and gave a short wave, telling her to stay.

“I’m just here for a few minutes.”

“Good to see you again,” she said and motioned to her hair. “Love what you’ve done.” Hearing her compliment warmed me.

“Thank you.”

The library smelled the same, looked the same, felt the same—but was completely different somehow. I found Nerd at the computers and, like the librarian, he did a double take when he saw me. I circled around the tables, keeping some space between us, unsure of what I wanted to say or do.

Nerd saw the ring on my thumb and gave an approving nod. I moved around the table toward him. He slowly leaned in the opposite direction, his gaze wandering with me, staying cautious of my moves like an abused child forever afraid of what’s behind them.

“I was sorry to hear about your husband,” he said, breaking the silence. “Is he . .?”

“He’s fine,” I answered, lifting the corner of my mouth, hoping to see him do the same. He pitched his head and thinned his lips, happy to hear the news.

Nerd raised his hands then, showing me his palms. “Just so you know, I didn’t have anything to do with it.”

“I know,” I told him as I motioned to a chair for permission to sit down. He lowered his hands and pointed to the chair with a shrug. My hand wandered over the keyboard. I brushed my fingers between the keys, pressing one and then another, teasing them as if I had something to say. “Anything good come up lately?”

His ears perked up but he furrowed his brow cautiously. “Amy . . .” he began flatly. “What do you want?”

“I thought maybe we could just look,” I answered. I waited to see his reaction.

He stayed calm, eyes cautious and fixed on me, but then they wandered back to what had begun to scroll by on his screen. Bright green text flew upward, rising until he clicked his mouse, stopping it long enough to read a few lines. His lips moved without making any noise.

“Just look?” he finally said, asking while he studied his screen.

“Maybe do more than look. But no promises,” I said. “Just wanted to see what you thought of the idea. Finish what we started?”

He considered what I proposed and then answered, “Maybe I’ve found someone else already.”

I sat up, suddenly feeling both surprised and hurt at the same time. I’d never considered that he would have found someone else to work with. I never considered that he’d even look for someone else.

“Oh. Good for you!” I tried to sound as though it didn’t matter to me, to sound as though it wasn’t a big deal.

“Amy! Seriously, are you interested?”

“I’m interested!” I nearly shouted, showing my enthusiasm, deciding it didn’t matter.

“By the way, I love the new look. It’s you. It’s very you.”