Killing Katie (An Affair With Murder) (Volume 1) (2 page)

I struggled, though. Especially after I’d finished each Killing Katie
design. What I’d drawn wasn’t exactly something that I could tack up onto our fridge with a pineapple-shaped magnet, announcing: “Hey, Mom, look what I did!” Mostly, the euphoric high I felt peaked like a sensual relief, and then I’d come crashing down. My days after were filled with sadness. It was during those days that I wished I were more like the other girls. It was those days that I’d consider a murder—just one—in order to protect the rest of the world from who I truly was.

But like an autumn rain, my gray days always passed. I tried to fit in. I’d listen to the other girls—the ones I’d call my friends—go on and on about their plans for a dance or an upcoming Friday night at the roller rink. I’d contribute a few words too—just enough to maintain some semblance of normalcy. The girls never suspected that I was different, but Katie picked up on it sometimes. I’d blame my distance and blue moods on a girlish crush, carefully picking one of a dozen cute guys who were already spoken for.

I’d never acted on any of the Killing Katie designs; I chose instead to pack them away in my secret box. I rolled up my blueprints tightly and safely tucked them next to a smaller collection of teen-girl memorabilia. Katie is still the closest person to me, and while I’ve never acted on my fantasies, I’ve never escaped the dreaminess of them. For some reason, the itch to do something about them has been getting stronger and stronger, almost urgent.

I jumped when Steve wrapped his arms around my middle—he never had gone back to sleep. I’d gotten so lost in my thoughts that I hadn’t even heard him come downstairs. He held me tight, and I leaned into his warm embrace. He kissed the back of my neck and then pressed against me. And at once, I could feel just how happy he wanted his birthday morning to be. The earlier spur of excitement awakened. I moaned a sexy tone that I knew turned him on, and as if on cue his hand wandered up my side, touching playfully before landing on my breast. Another moan slipped from my lips, and I felt my nipple harden beneath his fingers. A moment later, the stove’s burners were off, and I was on my knees humming “Happy Birthday.” We made our way to the couch. I came with him, dreaming of murder nearly the entire time. Like I said, some things just go great together—like peanut butter and chocolate.

M
OST OF OUR
mornings are nothing at all like our celebrated birthday mornings. I suppose that is why they are so special. That’s not to say that Steve and I don’t have a good sex life—we have a great one. Maybe we are just lucky and hit a relationship lottery of some kind, connecting on all the right levels. I’d like to think so, anyway. Or maybe we’d just become more comfortable with ourselves and each other in our middle age, which, by the way, I’ve found to be one of the sexiest things about us.

There was one moment, though, when I nearly ended us. It wasn’t because of my quirky murder fantasies. I shook my head, remembering how young we were back then—hot, oversexed, and way too naive—I had truly thought we were over. Steve cheated on me. The memory of it aches like an old scar. I cringe and cover my heart when I think about it: a wound that never quite healed.

The extent of his cheating, you ask? As I’d been told by a friend who’d witnessed the indiscretion, she’d seen Steve wrapped up with a beautiful, tall redhead. Tucked away in the shadowy corner of a neighborhood bar, hidden in a bubble of lust, their heads turning, hips grinding. She’d said there was no mistaking what they were doing. She’d recognized Steve right away and even raised her hand to wave hello before she realized what was going on. “Heart-shaped tattoos,” my friend remembered seeing. “A set of three between the skank’s thumb and forefinger.” There are some things you never forget.

And I remembered that night. I’d been home with the flu, too sick to go out. I’d thought it fortunate that Steve’s friends were gathering at the bar for a guys’ night to watch the Phillies sweep the Mets. That is likely how it started—buckets of beer, baskets of wings, and cheering or jeering the baseball game on the big screen. But when it comes to those sports-bar tramps, they’re as easy and as free as the chips and peanuts.

A month before we were to marry, Steve told me everything. He spilled like a fountain. I’ll never forget how he said it either—abrupt, like an accidental cut of a knife. My hand in his, walking to his car after a weekend showing of the original
Titanic
, and Steve blurted the words: “I was with someone.” I had flinched as if slapped in the face, and then stopped in the middle of the road. I stood on the double yellow lines for what seemed an eternity, slipping one foot over to the other side, tempted to run from the small burst of hurt and jealousy that came with his confession. He pulled me close to him then, smelling of movie popcorn and cola. I gazed up, searching his eyes, my view clouded by the sting of disappointment. The moment seemed surreal—our magical fairytale ending in tragedy. I thought that I must have misheard him, that he must have said something else. In my mind I tried to reason with the confession, but the logical part of me would hear none of it.

And just exactly who had Steve been with? Who was this vixen with the long red locks thrown over my man’s shoulders? I never did find out. I know that some women have to hear a name and to see the other woman’s face, but I never understood wanting the torture of knowing. So I never found out—accidentally or otherwise. Steve offered me her name once—I could see it perched on his lips, the first syllable tumbling out and rhyming with
nah.
I had quickly raised my hand and pressed my fingers against his lips.

“No names,” I’d told him, not wanting to know who this scarlet lady was, not wanting to add her name to my list. Up until then, my list had stayed short and safe and deep in my mind. Who knows how easily something could materialize later in my life? I’d kissed him long and hard then—sensually. I told him that he was allowed this one slip, this one mistake, and that he had the rest of our lives to make it up to me.

“I love you,” he repeated later that evening, the agony still in his voice. We made love, and I never doubted him after that. The thought of who
nah
was has crossed my mind from time to time. Yes, I’m human too. But my gut told me never to try and learn her name. I trusted my gut, and it was a good thing for
nah
that I listened to it.

While the suddenness of Steve’s words had stopped time and nearly broke my heart that day, what he did to us—to me—wasn’t fatal. Why would I give him a second chance? Simple. I believed him. But more than that, because he gave me the opportunity to make a decision before I walked down the aisle. That is more than I can say for myself. After all, who was it who was
really
bringing the most baggage into our marriage? I already had plenty of secrets—a trunkful that I dragged with me and kept hidden in my own bubble of lies.

But there was another reason I didn’t break up with Steve. And with every part of me, I hope that I am right about him. Somewhere, deep inside me, deep in my heart where love
is
magical and comes alive, I believe that if Steve ever saw me—the true me—he wouldn’t run. That is why I love him. That is why I married him.

Our busy and chaotic morning passed like a sudden tornado after that—the dog barking to be fed, bodies whipping around in the kitchen, eating breakfast, lunches being made, and the rush to get Steve to work and Michael to school. My boy is about to become a new teen. He’s just beginning to hit that stage of awkwardness with that forever feeling of self-consciousness. Now and then, I’ll catch him diving into an old bin of his Legos or watching cartoons, and I know that for the moment he is still a little more mine than the world’s.

We were young when we had Michael, early in our marriage. I can still see the furled eyebrows and the curious looks from friends and family as they counted the months and tried to do the math. Steve and I called Michael our honeymoon baby, but secretly, we knew he was a few months older than that. Like I said, we were always horny and oversexed, and we didn’t always play it safe.

That was early in Steve’s career too—fresh out of the police academy, filling his evenings and weekends with work. I was alone most of the time and often felt like a single parent, but I think most new mothers feel like that at times. Steve’s hard work eventually led to him being promoted to detective, which only meant that he was around even less. But no matter how tough things were, we’d made it work, even later, when life delivered one of its biggest surprises.

I’d mentioned the patter of bare feet . . . that would be our little girl, Jennifer, but we call her Snacks. “She looks funny and smells bad,” her older brother told us the day we brought her home
.
“Can we send it back?” We had laughed nervously and kept her, in spite of his request. We almost never call Jennifer by her real name, preferring to call her Snacks on account of her endless need to snack between meals. Michael jokingly came up with the name one evening when Jennifer had been particularly naggy and bugging us for something to eat. She’d clopped around—a messy tangle of hair bouncing above her head—yelling “Snack! Snack! Snack!” The nickname stuck. I’m not sure Jennifer even knows what her real name is.

By the time Snacks turned four, her hair had grown as long as mine, dark blonde with just enough reddish highlights that it can pass for red in the summer sun. But my baby girl’s face is nearly all Steve. I see him in her chin and lips and even her round cheeks. But I see my eyes in her eyes, an unmistakable deep hazel with a touch of green, like an emerald. I remember her fourth year because Steve had been promoted again, and the lost nights and weekends had become a little easier. On occasion, a criminal case would come across his desk that took him away from us. But by then, he’d staked out his office turf and learned the art of delegation.

I liked it when Steve brought home the popular cases—the ones that were on the evening news. He was never one who managed to work late into the evening. Not at home, anyway. I could always count on him falling asleep with at least a half-dozen case folders strewn open across our bed. That was my cue. That was my time to embellish some of my fantasies.

I gushed with anticipation whenever Steve fell asleep while working.
Take a breath
, I’d tell myself, trying to quell the urgent storm brewing in my mind. First, I’d open a bottle of wine, let it breathe before that first taste. Then I’d rush through each bedroom, silently making my way from bed to bed and tucking in the kids, kissing them goodnight. Next, I’d make sure Steve had no reason to get up. I’d pick off his round eyeglasses, place them on the nightstand. Sometimes, if he stirred, I’d rub his chest to coax him back to sleep. When I was sure the house was down for the night I’d carefully pull away the case files, clear the bed, and put them back together. But before putting them away in Steve’s briefcase, I’d secretly spend hours at our kitchen table, reading.

With a glass of wine in my hand and the silent murmur of our sleeping house, my heart would thump out of rhythm with each page turn. I loved the touch of the folders’ thick manila paper, the smell of the Xeroxed documents, and the smooth emulsion on the face of the crime-scene photos. I’d read every page and gaze at every photograph at least a half-dozen times. Sometimes, my body shook and even pulsed. My heart would skip at the more gruesome cases. I imagined myself as a hunter, prowling for my next victim, leaping like a cat, and pouncing, toying with a life. On more than one occasion my studies had been interrupted, but I’d become used to it, expected it. I’d hear Snacks thumping down the steps, unable to sleep. I’d perch her on my lap and whisper sweetness into her ears while studying Steve’s case files.

Just then, Snacks tugged on my shirt and held her balled hands up, clutching at the air, wanting more to eat. She was closer to seven now and growing faster and faster with each passing day. The mother in me still liked that she was needy, but I knew it wouldn’t last forever. And as I filled her carry-cup with her favorite cereal, I couldn’t help but wonder when Steve would have another set of case files. I hoped it would be soon.

“I
DON’T WANT
to be here,” Steve said grimly. I wove my arm through his and stepped onto the grass, my heels sinking into the soft earth. Steve braced me, letting me lean into him as we made our way over the carpet of green. “Thank you for coming.”

“Of course,” I answered softly, though I tensed a little, hurt that he’d felt he had to thank me. “John was my friend too. I’ve known him as long as I’ve known you.” He gave me a short nod and then struggled to say more, muttering words as grief hung over us, jabbing our senses at random moments.

The cemetery was solemn and absent of voices, leaving only the sound of jays and cardinals calling out while they skittered across the tops of tall evergreens lining the graves. A cloudless sky promised no rain on this sorrowful day, but broke in the center with the sun at high noon. The steely yellow eye watched while we slowly gathered to say good-bye to a friend.

And it was true. I’d known John for as long as I’d known my husband. I met them both on the same night, and at first, my eyes were for John. Tall and rugged, he was the best-looking man in the bar. Three drinks in, I knew I wanted him—until I saw Steve. And after meeting my future husband, I suddenly became blind to everyone else. Sounds sappy, but it’s true.

The memory of John’s sweet voice as he introduced me to Steve came back to me.

“Steve, this is Amy. Amy, Steve,” John had said, patting Steve on the ass and gently nudging him closer. “It was nice to talk to you, Amy. You can trust that Steve is a good guy.” But, after shaking Steve’s hand, I only vaguely heard John. He left us alone then. It had been just the two of us, lost in a sea of dancing and drinking and hopeful chatting as everyone around us tried to find the same thing we were in search of at that age. I swayed to the music as we traded a few opening lines, both of us hoping each line lead to another one.