Page 42 of The Six Murders of Daphne St Clair

DAPHNE:You seem a little flustered.

RUTH:No, I’m fine. Sorry, I just didn’t sleep well. . . I think as the podcast is becoming so high-profile, I’m a little worried about our safety. Yours and mine both. The last time I drove home from here, I could have sworn that a car was following me. But I couldn’t be sure. . .

DAPHNE:Well, I can’t imagine anyone would go afteryou. I’m the murderer. You’re just someone helping me.

RUTH:Well, I don’t know that I’m helping you. I’m a journalist trying to establish the truth. . .

DAPHNE:Okay, great, whatever you need to tell yourself when you start making cash off my story.

[END OF REMOVED SECTION]

RUTH:So you weren’t happy in Leosville?

DAPHNE:I really felt like I’d lost myself. I was just another faceless woman at the kitchen sink, wishing every girl would make the same choices as her because she couldn’t bear knowing other people still had freedom.

RUTH:Sounds challenging.

DAPHNE:You probably don’t feel that bad for me. I understand. When I was younger, I would have killed for this kind of rich person problem. In fact, I did! But I just want you to know that I did try. Killing David was never more than my Plan B.

HauteHistoire:“Hello my TikTok fashion junkies, it’s time to take a trip back to mid-century America. ThinkStepford Wives, think Florence Pugh inDon’t Worry Darling, think Betty Draper before she realized Don Draper was the original fuckboy! Back to the era of vacuuming in heels, getting your hair set, and secret pill addictions! So we’ve got a red floral Dolce & Gabbana sundress here to help us live out our Tomato Girl fantasies. Then add a pair of chunky plastic heart sunglasses to show that you can still be fun even if you’re dying on the inside! And of course, a pair of Roger Vivier heels because in mid-century America, women always wore heels, even on their slippers! If you feel like dressing up as Murder Barbie while you plot your darling hubby’s eventual demise, then I’ve got you covered!”

A year passed and I was even more unhappy. I couldn’t even commiserate with anyone because everyone in town seemed so content that they had a nice house and a full TV schedule to occupy them until death came. One evening, as I was washing dishes and David was idling in the kitchen, picking at his second piece of pie, I tried to explain how I was feeling.

“Do you ever feel really frustrated with your life? Like you want to tear it all up and start over?” I asked, glancing at him. He was sitting on the counter, looking like a little boy in a high chair.

“Not anymore. I used to want a family badly. But now I have you and the kids and I’m so happy,” David said. His brow was completely smooth, as if he’d never had a serious worry in his life. And maybe he hadn’t; he’d grown up wealthy in a quiet little town where everyone knew and liked him. Yes, it had taken him a little while longer to get married but it’s universally acknowledged that if you have enough money, someone will marry you eventually. Especially if you’re a man. You could have a second nose growing out of your forehead and some busty twenty-five-year-old would still wax poetic about your gentle soul and sly sense of humor.

“I just don’t like Leosville,” I muttered. “It grates on my nerves. I thought my life was going to be. . .special.”

“My darling, things will get easier,” David said, slipping his arms around my waist. “Your life has changed, and you just need time to adjust.”

“I don’t want to adjust,” I muttered, stepping out of his grip. He looked hurt and I resisted the urge to slap his face. David was just too nice. I should have liked that after all the bad men I’d dated, but it doesn’t matter how much a woman’s been through, if she describes a man as ‘safe’ then he’s destined for the scrap heap.

“Give it time; you just have to settle in,” David said, ambling out of the room. I rested my forehead on the cupboard door in front of me, staring down at the potato peels floating in the soapy sink. The phrase ‘settle in’ echoed in my head and I had a sudden image of a rock sinking down to the bottom of a pond.

That night I lay in bed next to my husband. He was sleeping peacefully and that made me resent him. Didn’t he care that I was unhappy? Why wasn’t he tossing and turning, his mind racing with ideas for how he could help? David was just so grateful to have me but all that gratitude, well it annoyed me. I was used to having something to push against, a hatred that would fill me with drive and energy. I was like a mangy dog who bit the hand that fed it because I only knew how to fight.

It’s wrong to kill. I know that. Sure, I didn’t go to church anymore (that tends to happen once you’ve been attacked by a preacher) but ‘Thou Shalt Not Kill’ is pretty much Christianity 101. But killing never made me feel bad; living did. Living in a world that didn’t give a shit about me and what I wanted. Killing was a release from all that. It was my declaration of independence (after all, I was American now!) and it was always a thrill, the feeling that you were the master of the world. I didn’t feel ashamed of what I did, only what was done to me.

I stared at the black ceiling and watched the starbursts tingle in the darkness. My heart was pounding in my chest and I felt as if I was going to explode out of my skin if something didn’t change. I could just leave David, but I only had enough money in savings to cover six months of expenses in New York. I could live differently of course, but the only place I really felt like me was in the city. Without the money, I was just the same old farmgirl with shit on her shoes. A shadowy certainty crept over me, propelled by my racing thoughts and his gentle snores. I had done it before and, now, I was going to do it again.

David was going to have to lose his life so I didn’t lose myself.

Chapter Twenty

BurntheBookBurnerz:

THIS is what the tradwives don’t tell you. That behind all the pretty dresses and clean kitchens, women are LOSING IT. Everyone who’s got a hard-on for homeschooling and baking bread needs to remember how much women struggled with this stuff. Ring Ring Ring, Betty Friedan, looks like we got a case of ‘the problem that has no name’!

PreyAllDay:

Jesus, it feels like you had that one teed up. How long have you been waiting to hit Paste?

StopDropAndTroll:

I don’t get ur fucking problem. She meets a nice man who pays for her and gives her a nice life. David was a fucking saint! He’s even raising kids that weren’t his! She’s lucky to find a man like that. What’s her issue?? This is why we need MGTOW!

PreyAllDay:

---