She sipped the water and tried to process all she’d heard and seen. There was no disguising Ivan’s terminal state, but had he really beaten Hannah so badly? Was any of her story true? She looked across the table to where the woman was sitting, like her, lost in thought. Was she wondering how much Susan had swallowed? Did it matter?
If Hannah had been trying to drum up some sympathy, it had worked for a while. She had painted a horrific picture of abuse, but there was something in her eyes and her expression that said she wasn’t to be trusted. It was difficult; Susan tended to trust everyone. Like an affectionate Labrador, her sisters often said.
But even the most affectionate animal could turn given just cause – she’d read Cujo. She’d come here to fight for Mark, but plan A had failed and she didn’t have a plan B. Not a realistic one. Not one a sane, rational woman would think was a good idea. She’d spotted the knife block as soon as she’d come into the kitchen. Similar to her own, it sat innocently on the corner of the counter, brushed, stainless steel handles standing to attention. They looked more expensive than hers. The blades would be sharp.
Nobody knew Susan was there. That nurse wouldn’t be able to describe her since he’d barely glanced her direction. There was nobody to connect Susan to Hannah – apart from Ethan. She considered him for all of a second before dismissing him. A man with his morals didn’t count.
Hannah didn’t look up when Susan got to her feet. Why would she? Everyone dismissed Susan so easily. As if what she did was seldom important. Perhaps they were right. It would help, wouldn’t it? Nobody would ever think her capable of what she was about to do. ‘I’m just going to get a refill,’ she said, nodding towards the kitchen sink. ‘I’ll help myself.’ She had to clamp her mouth shut to stop talking. Nerves, that was all, she’d never done anything so horrendous, so unbelievable before.
But she hadn’t done it yet.
She glanced over at Hannah, whose arm was moving rhythmically as she swirled the contents of her mug around and around. She seemed mesmerised by whatever she was seeing, her face down, eyes fixed.
Susan turned on the tap and held her glass under the flow of water until it was full, then turned the tap off and took a sip, as if she was tasting the damn stuff. The knife block was within hand’s reach. Bigger knives lined up at the back, shorter ones to the front. The middle back one would be a wide blade, a cleaver. Would that be the best option? Or would a long, slimmer blade be best? She’d liked to have taken them all out one at a time to compare, but she guessed that might alert the woman still hunched over her coffee that something wasn’t quite right.
In a minute, there is time for decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse. There was no time. She placed the glass gently in the sink and, without turning, reached for the cleaver. It slid out with an expensive whisper. Sun breaking through the heavy cloud streamed through the window and hit the blade; it sparkled and for a moment, Susan was enthralled.
It looked pretty rather than lethal.