Killing Katie (An Affair With Murder) (Volume 1) (6 page)

“Yours too,” I answered, smiling.

The conversation was starting to feel forced. That had never happened before. Conversation had always been easy—especially when we had still been on the same playing field, sharing the same mommy and husband woes. I watched her attack the screen on her phone again. She looked triumphant as she sent off another text or email. I could text Steve’s mom . . . maybe invent a reason to have her scold Snacks for me, but it just wouldn’t be the same thing.

“I’m so hungry,” she said. “How about you?”

“We’re at Romeo’s,” I answered with some sarcastic charm. “What do you think?”

Romeo’s Café was our place. Once or twice a month, we’d try and meet without any kids in tow, hoping to catch up. Early on, there had been playdates, at least a half dozen a month, but we could never be ourselves during them—not like we used to be.

“Work?” I asked while looking at the menu.

“Work is good,” she answered, and then she lowered her menu. “But the men . . .”

“Men?” I asked, raising my brow. “Do tell.”

“Oh, it’s not like that . . . okay, well maybe just a little sometimes,” she answered. “But the flirting is innocent. What I mean is that they are so different now, a whole generation that I don’t even recognize. They . . . they seem so young.”

“That’s because they are,” I answered without hesitating. I knew where she was going. I knew because I’d felt the same way. We weren’t young anymore. I could still turn a man’s head, and certainly Katie would give any man a reason to pause, but our days of getting away with thigh-high shorts and going braless had passed us by. Our bodies had changed as fast as a light switch—on and then off. Now we had to work a little harder. Prepare a little more. Men? And we’d both seen the way our husbands would sneak a peek elsewhere when they thought we weren’t watching. Did it bother me? You bet! Who wouldn’t want endless bounce in their tits and an ass that stayed firm forever?

Age is a fickle bitch, and there is just no staying out of its way.

A soft wind pushed a cloud out of the sun’s path and warm sunlight peered under the patio’s canopy. A sharp ray glinted off my knife and fork like a jewel, hitting my eyes before bouncing across from me. I followed the bright reflection to where it landed on Katie’s neck. The timing was simply eerie. It was perfect. My heart jumped. The sight in front of me was beautiful. I’m not a doctor—I had almost failed my high school biology class—but there was a pulse where the bright light washed over Katie’s tender skin.

Her jugular? Was that the right term?

Blood coursed just below that spot, pumping and beating against her neckline. The sight of it was hypnotic.

My mouth went dry as I imagined myself taking the knife and running its blade over Katie’s neck, opening her skin and freeing her caged heartbeat. Blood would spill like a waterfall, filling our glasses and washing over the table, turning everything bright red and throwing the powerful scent of copper and spent blood into the air.

“Amy,” the wind chirped, catching my attention. “Amy! Are you all right?” I was startled, nearly jumped when Katie tugged on my shoulder. She sat back down, and the warmth of her touch quickly faded. The sun had disappeared behind another cloud, taking the strong beam of light with it.

“I’m sorry,” I tried to say, but my voice was stuck in my throat. “Just distracted.”

“Are you sure? Did you hear what I told you?”

I shook my head, embarrassed. “No, I’m sorry.”

“I think Jerry is having an affair.”

At once, my fantasy disappeared like the sunlight. It was replaced by disappointment and empathy. Fantasy or no fantasy, I loved Katie and hated hearing that news. But at the same time, deep in my gut, a sense of disbelief sprung up. I just couldn’t see her husband doing something like that. Not because he was such a nice guy and a great father—I just didn’t think he was smart enough. Her husband Jerry lacked a certain something that most men had. Balls. He lacked balls. Heck, most of the time, Katie was more the man in their relationship. If anyone were having an affair, I would think it would be Katie.

I felt my face cramp as I questioned what Katie told me, and I could tell by the sudden change in her posture that she’d been offended by my reaction. I quickly moved my hand onto hers. “Are you sure? I mean, are you really sure?”

“Almost?” she answered, but in her tone I heard uncertainty. That could mean that she had found something suspicious. I wondered if it wasn’t something as innocent as a business receipt for a lunch.

“Don’t get me wrong,” I began to say. “I love you and I adore Jerry—always have—but cheating? And on
you
? He married up,
way
up. I’m just not seeing him doing that to you and the boys.”

Katie stared ahead, looking past me, her eyes wide and her lower lip trembling. There was something else. There was more, but she wasn’t ready to say anything.

“You’re probably right,” she quickly answered, pressing her lips together until they went white. She gingerly brushed the dampness from her cheeks and picked up the menu. “Ready to order?”

“Katie,” I objected. “Wait. What else is going on?” She shook her head and put on a terrible lie of a smile.

“I’m sure you’re right,” she exclaimed, waving to our waiter. But I didn’t believe her. There was clearly more, a lot more.

For the next hour, our conversation drifted into the familiar territories of home and family and the never-ending challenges of motherhood. Most of the back-and forth was a rehearsed banter, Katie’s way of leaving behind her worries for a few minutes. But it was what she
wasn’t
saying that kept me bothered. And while I remained skeptical and disbelieving of her suspicion, I had to admit to being intrigued by the idea of Jerry being so deceptive. If what Katie was saying were true, then how long had the affair been going on? How many lies had Jerry told? Just the thought of someone else in our small circle having secrets turned me on. I wanted to know more. I wanted to learn.

Images of our home computer crept into my mind—as did my first failed attempts at spinning up a secret life. With this last thought, I stabbed a glance at my phone to check the time. I had at least another three hours.

What could I do with the afternoon? Buy a new computer. A laptop that I could secretly keep to myself. I’ll have to get cash from the bank or put it on a credit card.

My head began to spin again as I traced how every transaction showed up on our monthly bills. We shared that chore, switching off month to month, taking turns.

Was it my turn to pay the bills and balance the checkbook this month? If not, how much could I get away with spending?

Steve sometimes checked my work when it was his turn anyway, I knew.

“Can I wrap that up for you to go, ma’am?” our waiter asked. I hated being called ma’am. My mother was a ma’am
,
and she wasn’t exactly one of my favorite people. I felt fit and sexy—did I look like a ma’am? I certainly didn’t feel like one. The waiter leaned forward and repeated, “Ma’am?” I cringed at the sound.

“No, no, that’s fine. I’m done,” I answered primly, keeping my lips straight and tight, as if something had been wrong with his service. But then I saw his shoes—tattered, torn, and barely holding together. That pair of black walking shoes were probably older than anything I owned—except for maybe our home computer. I bit my lip, feeling the twinge of guilt. He was just doing his job and trying to be polite. It wasn’t his fault I was self-conscious. I offered a smile to thank him. And as I did, my eyes fell on my next destination.

Just down the street from Romeo’s Café, I saw the public library. I couldn’t remember the last time I had visited the library—might have been for a school project with Michael, who had done a report on the Dewey decimal system. But I remembered seeing computers and I remembered they had access to the Internet. Its open hours would align perfectly with my schedule and with when Steve’s mother usually watched Snacks.

Feeling happy with my plan of where to go after lunch, I made sure to add a little extra to the tip, hoping our waiter would use the money to buy himself some new shoes.

T
HE LIBRARY SMELLED
of old books and furniture polish. I wrinkled my nose, recalling its strong odors from growing up. I couldn’t help but wonder briefly if I should be doing the same at home? I dusted, and Steve helped now and again on rainy Saturdays when the weather gave back the hours. But I’d thought the days of spraying furniture polish and wiping everything down had gone the way of the aluminum ice tray and hot-air popcorn makers.

A long counter with all the amenities one would expect at a library stood to the right side of the entrance, where a mousy-looking librarian with a nose too close to her eyes greeted me. I almost laughed when I first looked at her. There was no doubt she was the librarian. If there was ever a stereotypical picture of a librarian, it was this woman. She wore a corn-blue, ruffled blouse with a dark blue V-neck vest. Her hair, brushed gray by age, had been pulled back into a tight bun. It sat atop her head like a big round button. But what did it for me were her thick, squarish reading glasses perched at the end of her nose and the chains running under her ears and around her neck. She stared over the frame of her glasses with a pert smile and greeted me. I smiled back, noticing that she wore no jewelry—not even a wedding band. I wondered if there was some kind of librarian’s code.

“May I help you?” she asked in a voice that sounded as old and dusty as the books on the shelves.

“Yes, thank you,” I quickly answered, feeling as if I were back in high school, researching a term paper. “I’d like to use a computer?”

The librarian jutted her chin up and glanced over her shoulder. I turned in the direction she indicated to find two rows of tables, both of them filled with various types of computers, and all of them looking newer than our home computer.

“No books today?” she asked. I shook my head. The librarian mumbled something under her breath about how nobody visited to check out books anymore. I supposed she was right. Sad. I couldn’t remember the last time
I
actually checked out a book.

As I stepped to pass the old woman, she reached out with her palm open. Clearly she expected something from me. I stopped, confused.

“If you want to use one of the library computers, then I’ll need to hold your library card,” she instructed. My throat closed up and I stepped back. The whole reason for visiting the library was to do research without leaving any traces of who I was. I’d never considered needing a library card.

“I forgot it,” I quickly answered, trying to garner a little sympathy. “And I really need to use the computer today. I’m out of work and looking for a job.”

Did that sound pathetic enough?

“I see,” the librarian answered, but she looked suspicious. She was sizing up my outfit. “A driver’s license will do. I just need to hold it until you’re done.”

Oh my God. Seriously?

My nerves were rattled now. A sudden sweat was making my scalp itch. The irony was that I knew when faced with committing murder, I wouldn’t feel anxious or nervous at all.

Why was that? Maybe because I would be the one in control?

“Yes. Yes, certainly.” I dove into my purse, making a show of pushing everything back and forth and shooting up a flustered glance or two. My wallet was right there in my hand, but I wasn’t about to turn over my license. I kept my hands hidden in my purse another minute, until I saw the librarian’s patience wear thin. She shifted, annoyed and uncomfortable. She bounced her glasses back up the bridge of her nose. After another minute, she finally waved her hand to let me pass. It was good to know that some of my old tricks from high school still worked.

“Oh, go ahead,” she instructed, her voice sounding resigned and tired. “Nobody reads books anymore, nobody uses their cards. What does it matter? And listen, dear. You just hang in there. I do hope you have luck in finding a new job.”

“I appreciate that. Thank you,” I answered and rushed past her before another word could be said.

As I made my way to the computer tables, a young man caught my eye. He smiled, having watched the exchange with the librarian. He winked. Or I thought he winked. I got the sudden feeling that he knew I was lying to the mousy old woman.

From the look of him, I would have expected him to be in school. If he were ditching class, he’d picked an odd place to spend his time. I gave him a glance but didn’t return a smile. He was all nerd. Knotty curls of black hair that hadn’t been cut or combed in a while, a yellow-and-white striped shirt with sleeves that were too short for the time of year. The only thing missing were glasses and a pocket protector. I didn’t like the way he looked at me, so I decided to stare back, narrowing my eyes. Another trick from high school. I kept my stare on him until it made him uncomfortable enough to turn away. Soon he disappeared behind the computer. As I passed behind him, he dared a glance over his shoulder. I could tell that he was staring at my ass; a girl can always tell. It was an innocent reaction and I didn’t mind, preferring that he only saw that side of me, anyway.

The computers weren’t just newer than the one at home, they were completely different. While our boxy tank was loud and ran an old version of Windows, the computer in front of me was a newer Apple—I’d seen these only on television commercials. It had crisp, elegant lines and it was thin. A large black screen like onyx filled the space in front of me. I felt even more intimidated than I had with our home computer. I touched the mouse, hesitating. Without a sound, other than a melodic chime, the display lit up immediately with brilliant colors. My first thought was that Steve would love one of these. My second thought was that I had no idea how to use a Mac.

Where was the browser? How do you print? Should I print? And what about my secret box, the hidden folder that I needed?

“Windows person, huh?” I heard the nerd ask. I realized then that I must have been staring at the computer for a while, doing nothing, thinking everything. “Need the Internet?”