Page 36 of Kill Your Darlings

“Well, I think he probably can remember,” Stan said. “Why don’t you tell me why you really came here.”

“You can do what you want, obviously,” she said. “But I’m here to ask you a favor. I want Sloane Barrington out of my life. She’s been dogging me with this for years because I got more of the family money than she did. That’s what this is all about. Nothing more. And I don’t want my husband, who is going through some tough times right now, to be bothered. That’s all I want.”

“Your husband seemed fine to me.”

“You saw my husband when he was drinking. That’s the only time he’s fine.”

Stan uncrossed and recrossed his legs, then said, “Yes, my client did mention to me that you walked away with quite a lot of what she calledhermoney.”

Wendy took a deep breath, hoping it wasn’t visible. Stan was willing to negotiate. It was what she had been hoping for, and she said, trying to make it sound casual, “So, what’s it going to take to get you to return to Texas and tell her you found nothing?”

Back outside of the motel room thirty minutes later, Wendy had to squint her eyes against the bright sunshine. Had it been this sunny earlier? She couldn’t remember.

Walking across the tarmac, a male voice spoke to her from her left. “Is that Wendy Graves?”

She turned to see Alex Deighton, her husband’s disgusting coworker, coming from around his midlife-crisis Mustang with an enormous grin on his face.

“Well, well, well, it is you.” He turned back to look at the door she’d emerged from. “What areyoudoing here, Wendy?”

“None of your business, Alex, and I could ask the same of you.”

“The difference is I’d tell you all about it, if you were interested in hearing.”

Wendy shook her head. “Not interested, I’m afraid. And I have to get going.”

“Where’s your car?” he said, swiveling his head to look around at the parking lot, and then noticing the strip mall across the road. “Oh, your car is over there. You really are up to no good, Wendy. If I was a different sort of man, I could blackmail you with this information.”

“Alex, I’m not in the mood right now. I’m late. Goodbye.”

As she crossed the road to retrieve her car, she could feel his eyes on her, making her feel helpless and exposed. And by the time she’d pulled back into her own driveway, those feelings had morphed into something else entirely. She’d never liked Alex—no one really did—but what she felt now was pure hatred. And a little bit of fear that he had something on her.

Back at home she fed Samsa, then took her purse with her to the upstairs bedroom. She’d brought along several items she thought she might have to use in the motel room with Benally. The first was a condom she’d managed to find deep in the top shelf of the medicine cabinet, which she returned unopened. Then she opened up the safe and put back both the stun gun and the leather sap. Those had been more for self-defense than anything, although a plan had briefly formulated in her brain that had Stan Benally dead in his shower as though he’d taken a bad fall. But she was happy it hadn’t come to that. She had no real issue with the detective, who was just doing his job.

Before shutting the safe, she looked at the remaining gold bars, six of them, and didn’t think that Thom would ever notice that one had disappeared.

She was exhausted and lay down on the bed, Samsa sidling up to her, hoping for attention. She closed her eyes while idly strokinghis back. What she was thinking about was Alex Deighton and his smarmy smile, the pleasure he’d felt that he’d learned something about her. There had always been a part of her that felt bad that her husband Thom was the one who had to live with the memories of the murder he had committed (thattheyhad committed). Now, at least, she had a perfectly good candidate for a murder of her own. Just the thought of it made her feel better.

2011

Judy, Wendy’s best friend at work, was moving to D.C. in one week, so they were planning as many lunches as possible in the remaining time. And since it was a Friday, they were currently on the deck of the Rockaway Hotel. It was an ideal September day in Massachusetts, the air warm and dry, the tourists relatively sparse. They each ordered the fish tacos, and they were sharing a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc between them. “It feels like we’re on vacation.” It was something Judy always said whenever they went to the Rockaway for lunch.

“I can’t believe you’re leaving me.”

“I know. You’ll come to visit, though.”

“Of course I will,” Wendy said, knowing it was a lie. She liked Judy, but she also knew that she was just a work friend, and they’d keep in touch for a little while but would probably never see each other again after Judy moved. Their food arrived, the waiter splashing more wine into both of their glasses. As they began to eat, Wendy watched Judy’s eyes go a little big. She was turned away from the sun, facing the inside portion of the restaurant.

“Who did you just see?” Wendy said, beginning to turn.

“It’s Thom. He’s not alone.”

Annoyed by Judy’s conspiratorial whisper, Wendy fully turned inher chair. Thom was at the bar with a woman she didn’t know, who had to be at least fifteen years younger than he was. Thom’s attention was on the menu—probably studying the beer list—and it was clear he hadn’t seen his wife out on the deck.

“Looks like he’s punching above his weight,” Wendy said.

“What do you mean?” Judy said, alarmed, and Wendy remembered that one of the peculiarities of her friend was her inability to understand metaphors.

“Oh, nothing. Joking. I just meant to say that if he’s hoping for anything to happen between him and that woman, then good luck to him. She could be his daughter, and she’s gorgeous.”

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