Pam (22 page)

“The others. You mean …”
He
opened the folder and pulled out a sheet of paper. “Marge Elms?”

“I watched her go in the house.”

“You did more than that. You went in.
Pam …” He locked eyes with me. “I’m sorry.” He paused. “O
dpoklic
.”

Upon that word, the rush of blood returned and it was as if a giant plunger hit my
chest and
sucked everything out of me. I swayed and rolled from
Sharon
and she quickly scooted back.

I blinked hard as she huddled on the floor, close and behind Dr.
Hathaway
.

Quickly, she drew out of focus.

“Don’t fight it.” Dr. Hathaway said. “O
dpoklic
”

Flashback!

“I got this
,
” I giggled. “Watch.” Frantic
ly
,
I knocked on Marge’s door.

“Pammie? Is everything okay?”
Marge asked when she opened the door.

“I was worried about you,” I said, stepping in and closing the door. “I heard you were sick.”

“I’ve been under the weather. That is so sweet of you to stop by.”

“I didn’t mean to stop by so late.”

“That’s fine. In fact. I’m so glad
you’re here
. It’s so nice to know you care.” She kissed me on the cheek. “Can you help me up the
stairs?
I’m still a little weak from the flu.”

“Oh my God, absol
utely.” I took hold of her arm.

“I was just
helping her to bed. Sharon must
have
come in,” I said. “You came in
.
”
I looked at Sharon.
“
You did it.”

“Think harder
,
Pam,” Dr. Hathaway encouraged.

Flashback

We had almost reached th
e
stairs
. I felt calm, oddly calm. “Can I make you tea
,
Marge, bring it up to you?”

‘That would be wonderful.” She tried
to
move. “
P
am, something
’s
wrong. Why did you
stop?
”

I stared at her.

“Pam?”

I let go of her arm and exchanged it fo
r
a simple shove.

I watched her helplessly fall
backwards,
reaching out with a look of horror the entire time
she fell
.

I screamed out a ‘No’ as that
memory
ended. “
No
. Sharon did it. What did you do to me? You put that in me.”

“Did I put it in your mind about her?” Dr. Hathaway showed me the picture of Connie.

Flashback

Connie’s gut
-
wrenching scream was deeper than I would have expected to come from a teenage
d
girl.

“Shut up!”
A
foot slammed into her face
.

I looked down at her, I moved with her as she was pulled by her hair.

“No, please,” Connie cried. “No, please.”

“Stop crying. Stop it.” A kick, another kick.

I held firm
ly
to the branch of
a
tree. It was a switch of sorts, only hea
v
ier.
Better
able to deliver a punishment
.
“You make me sick.”

I swung the branch down hard against Connie’s face. She screamed with the strike.

“I
said
…”

A hit to her face.

“Stop.”

Another hit to her head.

“
Making
…”

Another hit.

“
Noise
.”

The final hit broke the branch
,
and Connie didn’t move. Her head was bloody, skin hung from the side of her face.

I ki
cked into Connie rolling her on
to
her
back. The second she did so, her eyes weakly opened.

There were no words. None needed
to be
spoken.

She looked pathetic. Weak. Not quite the beauty queen
s
he made herself out to be.

“Cheer for me
,
Connie.”

She could barely
cry,
but
she tried.

I felt the broken branch in my hand. I saw the sheared
,
rigid edge of it and turned the sharp portion down toward Connie.

I stood over her. “Give me a ‘D’. Give me an ‘E’, Give me an ‘A’ ‘D’,” I laughed. “Dead.”

I lunged the sharp end of the point into her
throat;
it impaled and went straight through.

She didn’t die. Not at
first
. She
choked.
Perhaps on the
branch
, maybe the blood.
But after struggling to cough, a small
amount
of dark red fluid seeped from her lips and she went still. Lifeless.

I didn’t panic. I felt nothing. Nothing at all.

Leaving the branch
protruding
from her throat
,
I walked over to where they were building the new playground. It was perfect. The area had already been dug for the new fountain.

No one was around
,
and I knew Sharon had my back. I left Connie there and walked
to
my car.

I
n
the trunk
was the small hand held shovel
I kept in case I go
t
snowed in. My father’s brilliant idea. I thanked him in my mind and went to where they had prepared the ground for the fountain.

It took me hours to dig that
hole with
in the hole. I was certain that Connie’s body would be found. The grave was shallow.

I didn’t care. I really didn’t care.

“She was buried where they put the wishing fountain. They filled it with cement. They never found her,” I spoke
,
breathy. “But Sharon was there. She was there. We went to the game together.”

“And would you say she was here for her?” Another picture, this time it was Marion Blake. The article about her, her death.

“
Yes
,
” I sobbed, my head bobbing. “We went to see her. We did. That was it. We just wanted to warn her about Richie. To stay away from Richie. That was all. We talked to her. We left. We argued but we left.”

“That’s not what happened
,
” Dr. Hathaway said. “You argued. And then you went in and argued some more.”

“
No
.” I shook my head.

“Pam. The auto
b
ody man
identified
you.”

“No! He
i
dentified Sharon.”

“Pam
, you were there. You went into the apartment.”

“Sharon went in.”

“You went in. What did you do?”

My head lifted.

Flashback

She slammed the door on me. Told me to go away. How dare
her
when she had an affair with my husband. How long did I stand the
r
e, stewing, boiling,
and hating
her
with
each passing
second?
It seemed like an hour, but it was only a
few
minutes. I knocked and knocked.

She opened the door. “Leave or I
call
the police. I already told Richie you were here.”

As she started to close the door, using all my strength and anger I stopped her and blasted in.

“Get out!” she screamed and ran to the kitchen. My guess the phone. I hurried after her.

She lifted
the receiver. She was smaller than me. A petite little
thing
off
balance
by her growing pregnant state.

Too busy
trying
to dial, I blasted into her, snatched the phone from her hand and
wrapped
the curled
cord
around her neck.

I knew she was going to
scream
, I knew it. She struggled and fought with me, pulling at the phone cord. It wasn’t
tight
, not at all.
N
ot yet.

As luck would have it, a
dishtowel
was on the counter
.
I grabbed
for it
, reached
around,
and shoved it in her mouth.

She tried to
spit
it out, I could tell.
Holding
the
receiver
, I
wrapped
it once more around her neck,
and then
the phone started doing that annoying beeping. The
warning
sound the phone was
off
the hook.

I ripped the other end of the cord from the base of the phone, pulled it tighter
,
and she barely moved.

I let her go and she fell to the kitchen floor.

Her face was
purple
. She was strangling.

Good.

“Is it his baby?”

She didn’t answer.
She fought to breathe.

“Damn it.” I knelt
down, pulle
d
on the c
ord to
loosen
it
,
and asked again. “Is this
baby
Richie’s?”

She coughed and cried. “Don’t hurt my baby.”

“Is it?”

Another burst of tears and she nodded.

“Fuck
you. He is
my
husband!” I released the cord, allowing it to snap back against her neck. It was tight. And while she struggled, just to
make
sure she didn’t get away, I secured the other end of the phone wire to the handle of the fridge.

She was like a lassoed calf
,
o
nly worse. Her legs kicked and fou
gh
t, her
hands grabbed on
to the
cord
in
a vain attempt to get air, and I watched her.

It was amazing how purple the face gets as it struggles for air. Her eyes bulged.

Poor thing.

She was suffering.

I stood
and looked
around
the
kitchen
. Opening drawers, I knew I’d find what I needed.

It wasn’t
a
big knife, but it was
sharp
. I was actually kind of
jealous
,
because
I didn’t have a knife like that at my
house
.

It would go home with me, I was
certain
.

But first …

Without hesitation, I knelt down next to her. “Want
to be
freed?” I asked.

Her lips moved.
I knew what she was mouthing.
Her baby.
Her baby. Whine. Whine. W
h
ine.

She made me sick
.
I freed her. A simp
le, fast slice against the cord
did nothing to
release
the tension of the wire, but it did
,
however,
slice
her throat.

Just to be
certain
she was dead, I plunged the knife into her chest.
A
s I pulled it out I looked at her pregnant belly. Touched it, felt it, hoped to feel a kick. I always liked that feeling.