SUNDAY MORNING
It took me eight minutes to properly wipe off my fingerprints following instructions gleaned from a Google search, then dispose of the knife. A simple drop-off in the neighbor’s garbage can several streets away, far enough that the police wouldn’t likely search it and deep enough that the owners wouldn’t notice it. As the moon hid behind a veil of clouds, I speed-walked home, avoiding streetlights as best I could. Pulling my phone from my pocket, I called Lily, desperate for the favor of a lifetime.
“Why are you calling me at the butt crack of dawn?” Lily said after picking up on the first ring. Lily always had a way with words.
“Sorry for waking you, but it’s urgent. I need a favor.” I didn’t know how much to say. All I knew was that my phone records would show this call when the police started investigating me, as they most surely would.
“Never mind, I was already awake. What kind of favor?”
“If anyone asks, I spent the night at your house last night. Okay? We had drinks at your place and I slept over. Then I left this morning—right around now. Then I called you to let you know I got home safely. Got it?”
“No, I don’t got it. I can’t be your alibi tonight. Wait until tomorrow.”
“It’s too late for that. Please.”
“Mac, what’s going on? Are you okay?” Uh-oh. I had triggered Lily’s worried voice. And she wouldn’t drop it until I answered to her satisfaction.
“I can’t tell you yet. But you’ll find out soon.” I didn’t want to drag her into it or make her an accomplice, so the less she knew, the better. I had already destroyed one friendship; I didn’t need to lose the other.
“Ohhhh . . .” I heard the wheels turning. “Did you leave Owen?” Her voice lit up with pride. “Good girl!”
“It’s a little more complicated than that, Lil. I need you to vouch for me . . . to the police.”
“I malano miau! Are you serious? What kind of trouble are you in?”
“You’ll find out soon enough, but please? I need you to do this. Besides, I kept my mouth shut about you and Grant. You wouldn’t want Robin to find out, would you?”
I hated myself for blackmailing Lily, but my survival instincts were kicking in. I needed her guarantee.
“Listen, Mac, you know I would do anything for you, but you couldn’t have spent the night because Tony was here all night. If that comes out, your whole story falls apart.”
“Tony’s there?” I yelped. “That’s great!” Here I was, a newly minted murderess, and Lily’s reconciliation with Tony seemed more important. I knew Lily still loved him, pined for him, tried every way to replace him in her heart. If I couldn’t have my happy ending, at least Lily could. I was glad for her, even while I had my husband’s blood on my hands, figuratively speaking. It was actually not nearly as gory as I had feared and expected.
“Yes and no. It’s not exactly good news, but I’ll explain later. Anyway, I’m not sure he’ll be thrilled to accommodate any of my requests after today.”
I calculated the odds of Tony’s sleepover coming up in a police interrogation. If she buried it, I doubted they’d dig deep enough to find out. Lily was my only shot at a credible alibi.
“Look, you’re the only one I can ask. If the police come asking questions, just don’t mention Tony and it should be fine. They have no reason to go looking for him unless you bring him up. I wouldn’t ask you to do this if my life wasn’t on the line here. Please.”
The silence stretched long and thin. I knew Lily, the eternal pragmatist, was wondering what exactly I had gotten myself into, and assessing her potential culpability.
“Fine, I’ll vouch for you and keep Tony in the dark. Just one question: are you okay?”
I laughed a sob. I was on the verge of crying, but I needed to hold myself together for what I was about to do next. “Ha. I’ve never been better. But I gotta go. I’ll explain everything later. I love you so much, Lily . . . and thanks.”
I didn’t have time to fully process the fact that Tony was back in Lily’s life, but I’d mull over that later once my own skeletons stopped jangling. As I hung up, I noticed two voicemail messages I hadn’t listened to when I had skipped through Owen’s slew of calls. I clicked on the first one:
“Heeey, Macky-poo.” It was Owen, from last night. Drunk as a skunk. And using the pet name I loathed. “Please come home. I need you. I love you. Just . . . come home. Please, baby.”
My chest constricted. I couldn’t breathe. With hands on my knees, I bent over, gasping while the corners of my vision darkened. Owen was gone. Dead. Forever. I couldn’t pull him back. I couldn’t fix what I’d done. And now, when it was too late, the reality caved in on me.
A car’s headlights crested the hill behind me, scaring me. I shouldn’t be seen out here on the street. I ducked into the bushes, hiding until the vehicle passed. I waited, watched . . . breathed. At least I wasn’t panicking anymore.
One more message, if I could handle it.
“Strong, be strong.” I’d never had any use for motivational speakers, but right now I could have really used one. “You can do this, Mac.”
I held my finger over the voicemail icon, shaking violently. It was Owen again, but this time more lucid. As I listened, I realized this voicemail could cause me a lot of trouble. I considered deleting it, then wondered if the cops could retrieve it and how they would interpret it. But I didn’t have time to worry about that. I had to prepare for the performance of a lifetime. Though, with the emotional overload surging through me, it wouldn’t be difficult.
My dark house loomed up ahead on the sleepy street, and I briskly jogged the rest of the way home. When I entered, I headed straight upstairs, cell phone in hand, my nerves shot. I paused briefly on the landing as I glanced into Aria’s room. Her door was ajar. She was sleeping soundly. The long night, the lack of rest, the anxiety, Owen’s peaceful face, the knife slicing across his neck, the phone message, the staging, the regret, the extreme guilt . . . it was all sloshing over me now, drowning me. As I entered our bedroom, I knew I had to finish this, rise above it, push ahead. It was the only way out, so I dialed the number.
“9-1-1. What’s your emergency?” the operator asked.
I hadn’t gotten a word out before I fell into sobs. “My husband’s been attacked. It’s his throat—he was cut across the throat. Please hurry!” It wasn’t difficult letting my voice naturally lose control, because I could feel myself slipping, my reality falling apart. It was all coming to a head.
“Ma’am, try to remain calm. Is the perpetrator still in the house?”
“No, no, I don’t think so.”
“Is your husband still breathing?”
“I don’t know. I don’t think so.”
“What’s the address, ma’am?”
I gave her my home address, then ran to the master bathroom and grabbed a handful of towels, pressing them against his neck to soak up any blood, since that’s what a frantic wife who just found her husband’s throat slit would do.
“An ambulance is on its way.”
Minutes later I heard the squalling sirens of the ambulance and police vehicles speeding to the scene. The paramedics would rush into the house, the police would search for clues, the spotlight would shine on me. Was it worth it? It didn’t feel like it anymore.
The curtain fell, and suddenly I felt so very alone.