Do Not Disturb(2)

Scott tilts his head to the side. “Are you alone here?”

I play with my hair, trying for casual and flirty. Easy, breezy. Nothing to see here, Officer. “Yep. Just little ol’ me. Derek is still at work.”

Don’t look down. Please…

Finally, he nods his head. “Okay. Sorry to bother you. I just wanted to make sure everything was all right.”

“Of course!” I laugh, hoping it doesn’t sound as weird to him as it does to me. “I’m glad you came. It makes me feel safe to know you’re out there protecting me.”

Scott’s cheekbones turn just the slightest bit pink. When we were in high school and he was embarrassed, his whole face would turn scarlet. “Just doing my job.”

“I appreciate it. And next time, I promise I’ll keep the volume down. Especially when I’m watching scary movies!”

He wags a finger at me. “You do that.”

“And we should catch up sometime,” I add. “Derek and I would love to have you over for dinner.”

“Sounds great, Quinn.”

Scott doesn’t want to have dinner with me and Derek. But that’s fine, since it wasn’t a genuine invitation, anyway.

He ambles down my front steps, and then down my driveway to his parked police car with the flashing red and blue lights. I never quite meant to break up with Scotty Dwyer, but now, for the first time, I wonder what my life would have been like if I hadn’t. If I had married a good, honorable man of the law instead of Derek, the man that I chose. I wouldn’t be standing here with blood on my skirt and on the soles of my shoes. That much is for sure.

I shut the door, but I keep watching Scott through the front window. I watch as he starts up the engine and pulls onto the road, and I don’t look away until his car is out of sight.

He’s gone. Thank God.

Now that he’s out of sight, I inspect my skirt. The drop of blood is about half a centimeter in diameter. I’ve never attempted to get blood out of my clothing before, but I have a bad feeling my best work skirt is ruined. Then again, that’s the least of my problems.

I walk back out to the kitchen, examining the carpet for signs of bloody footprints. The kitchen looks about the same as how I left it a few minutes ago. The sink faucet is dripping like it always does. There’s still that crimson smear on the green dish towel. The three plates I left in the drying rack are still lined up in a row. The refrigerator has that note taped up that I wrote to myself to remember to buy more paper towels.

And also, my husband is still lying dead on the kitchen floor in a pool of blood.





Chapter 2


I want to make one thing clear. I killed him.

I’m not going to claim it was the butler or a one-armed man. I did it. I killed my husband. All I can say in my defense is I had a good reason.

I look down at Derek, lying where I left him on the kitchen floor, his warm blood forming an uneven circle under his body. The knife is next to him, also dripping with blood and covered with my fingerprints. For a moment, I consider wiping the handle clean, but what would I be trying to achieve? This is my house. Nobody has as good a motive for killing Derek as I do. I tracked my own bloody footprints all over the carpet. Oh, and a police officer just saw me here at what I’m sure will be the approximate time of Derek’s death.

So I would say a few fingerprints are not worth worrying about.

I bend down beside him, getting more blood on my skirt, but I think we can assume the skirt is a lost cause at this point. His brown eyes are cracked open as he stares into nothingness, his perfectly chiseled features frozen. The muscles in his face are completely relaxed for the first time since I’ve known him. Even when Derek is sleeping, he’s tense. He grinds his teeth loud enough to wake me. Maybe in death, he’s achieved that total relaxation that the meditation app on his phone failed to provide. Maybe he’s finally achieved a sublime state of complete bliss.

Would it be a terrible thing to say that I hope he hasn’t achieved bliss? Would it be terrible to say that I hope he’s burning in hell right now?

Well, either way, it’s true.

And now I have to figure out my next move. As I see it, I’ve got two options:

1) Stay here and confess 2) Run

Option number one is tempting. After all, I’m already here. Inertia is powerful. And perhaps I could spin this. After all, my neighbor heard me screaming. Would anyone believe it if I told them the truth? That if Derek weren’t lying here dead, it would have been me. Him or me—that’s what it came down to.

I reach out and touch my neck. It’s still tender from where his fingers were. There will be bruises. He’s never left behind bruises before—at least not in a place anyone else could see. I can still hear his voice hissing in my face: Why are you home so early? Who were you planning to meet here?

Him or me. Maybe a jury would sympathize.

Then again, it’s not likely. Derek was well-liked by everyone in our community and also connected. He owns a business that everyone in New England has heard of. And more importantly, his family is connected. They’ve donated to every state politician currently in office, including the DA. And they never liked me. If they find out what I’ve done, they won’t rest until I’m rotting away in a prison cell for the rest of my life. They will spend every penny they’ve got to make me pay for this.