If James steals that money, he’ll be putting himself at huge risk for the mistakes I’ve made. And if he gets a loan, then we’ll be even further away from affording the help we need to have a family. But if we don’t pay, don’t give Will what he wants, one day soon, we’ll arrive home to find police on our doorstep with questions I can’t answer.
Those ugly thoughts spring free from their constraints. A plan seems to be forming in my mind. I need to be better. I want to be better. But if I play things right, I have a chance to remove a huge problem, and allow James and me space to work on our marriage, our future family. After all, I want a family more than anything. A family with James. Despite everything, he’s still here, fighting my corner. I don’t think I’ll ever find a love like this again.
There’s only one problem—it’s going to be painfully obvious what’s happened if Will suddenly dies.
Although I do seem to be criminally good at making murder look like an accident.
26
Now
Dimple
I remember what it was like when I first fell for James. It was a heady thing unlike anything I’d ever experienced before. I have a distinct memory of walking to work through London Fields on an otherwise ordinary weekday morning. It was raining, and I had a project overdue at work, and I’d forgotten to spray deodorant under my arms so I was already a little damp in the pits and conscious that it would only worsen as the day wore on.
And it was the best morning of my life.
It’s a real mindfuck very literally seeing the world through different eyes, an intoxicating cocktail of hormones flooding your brain and altering its chemistry. Going to work felt like going on holiday. Everything was through rose-tinted glasses. It was impossible to have a bad day. It was true magic.
This is how I feel now that I’ve given in to the idea of doing something about Will. It’s a strangely euphoric trepidation. At once relieved that there’s a solution to our problems and terrified about what I’m letting loose in myself.
Whether it will be an unfortunate tumble down some stairs or ahorrible crash, his proclivity for drink and drugs makes him a relatively easy target. And it will be different this time; I will be meticulous. I won’t make intricate plans only to throw them out the window in a fit of temper. Won’t have to keep looking over my shoulder, like with George. James will inevitably grieve for a while, but once he’s over it, we can get back to the way we were. But better.
A small voice in my head whispers that I’m being overconfident. That I’ve never killed a man with a clear and sober mind at the steering wheel. But I do my best to smother those doubts. Giving them too much oxygen feels unwise when Will’s elimination feels like my only lifeline.
“You seem in good spirits today,” Dimple says.
Said good spirits seem to be reflected back to me in the friendly squint of her eyes. Or perhaps it’s just my positivity-drunk brain imagining this.
“I am,” I reply, smiling.
I’m not imagining the smile that Dimple returns; that’s for sure. “I’m so glad to hear it. Can I ask what’s put you in such a good mood?”
Honesty, transparency. That’s what I’ve promised myself and Dimple. But this is different. This is premeditated murder, and if I tell her I’m going to do it, she’ll have to tell someone else. I can’t risk that.
An unexpected sadness suddenly surges over me, a gray cloud over my perfect-blue-sky day. It occurs to me that aside from Claire, Dimple is the person I’m most myself with. Sure, there are moments I try to avoid talking about things, or want to hold things back, but that’s normal, isn’t it? No one person bares the entirety of their soul without restriction to any one person. That would be psychotic.
“James and I have been doing well lately,” I say. “He’s making an effort to fight for our marriage.”
Seconds tick by. There are only maybe three or four of them, butthey stretch between us, bloated and pregnant. Whatever it is Dimple is thinking in those moments, what it is she almost says, I see her pack away for safekeeping. Instead, she draws out the following.
“So, your blackouts…” The change of topic is so swift that it almost gives me whiplash.
“I’m sorry, what?”
“Your blackouts,” she repeats plainly.
“I thought we were talking about James.”
The blank look she gives me tells me that maybe she’s seen through my bullshit. Perhaps an unfortunate side effect of letting her see me so completely; she may now be impervious to my lies.
“Entertain me for a moment, please. We can always return to James later on in the session if we have time.”
I’m wary, but I give her a nonchalant shrug. “Okay.”
“You seem to have found new clarity and understanding around your violent impulses.”
“Yes, that’s fair to say.”
