The Killer She Knew, page 3
“So, are you married?” Mia asks.
“No.”
“Any family?”
“No.”
She licks her lips. “Dead?” She stares into his eyes. “I’m sorry about that,” she whispers, looking away. I steal a glance at Nick, who doesn’t seem bothered and doesn’t reply beyond a pursed smile.
“What about you? Any family?” Nick says to turn the attention away from him. Smart move. I pick some dishes to serve the meal and place them on the kitchen slab.
“I have two daughters. My last child is a son. My youngest girl is twenty years old. She just got into college. It’s amazing how they grow up so fast. My other daughter—”
I finish serving breakfast and place the dishes in front of them. “This smells delicious,” Nick says, interjecting Mia’s narration. “No nuts, right?”
“No nuts.”
He mouths the words ‘Thank you,’ shutting down my laptop and placing it aside. He turns to Mia and says, “Wow. You have a really nice family.”
“The best, thank you. What do you think about having kids?” she asks, and I look at her scoldingly. Too far.
But Nick doesn’t hesitate to reply, “I haven’t given it a thought.”
“You should. Kids are joyous.”
“Mia, let’s eat?” I interrupt. “You have all day to grill him.”
She looks at me with a small frown. “Okay, I still have a few things to do anyway. Mrs. P. has been in a good mood lately. She took her pills without any resistance. Can you believe it?”
“That’s great,” I say, and she digs into her omelette so quickly it almost seems to disappear.
“Fine, I’ll get going,” she finally says.
Nick sighs, turning to me and giving me a weak smile. I respond with a steadier one. Having him over didn’t seem such a bad idea after all.
Chapter 4
EMMA
“I’M LEAVING,” MIA ANNOUNCES from the other end of the room as I throw her a quick look and return to the laptop.
“Okay,” I call out.
The second chapter of Nick’s book is flowing, and I must admit that the story and character build-up from his narrative are getting great.
“I’ll see you in the morning,” she adds as the soft sound of the wooden door against the floor causes me to stop writing. I look up as Mia says in a high-pitched voice, “The weather reports are always wrong,” her pissed-off scoff, almost concealing the loud slapping of the rain against the pavement outside.
“Sounds like it’s pouring,” I say.
“It’s been an hour since it began to pour,” Nick says. I stand and walk toward the door, securing its four inner locks. Mia joked when I installed these, saying, ‘You can’t be too careful,’ but one can never be too sure these days. In a split second, I glance back at Nick, feeling my body hesitate at the irony: locking yourself in with the person you wanted to be safe from.
I shake my head. The story is weighing on me, I convince myself. I can’t be wary of Nick; he’s been polite, and he’s a great writer with a vivid imagination. Nothing else.
I think about the written line Nick read this morning, and one part holds my attention: Gloria’s head was smashed on the ground, and Kathy hit her head against a chair in the chemistry lab. The names of the victims were quite similar to Zoe’s case, but they all died from overdose.
Nick’s story has to be a huge work of imagination, except for the red scarf. I glance again from the laptop back at Nick. “What time is it?”
“Six o’clock.”
I nod my head. Zoe’s case was a famous one; Nick must have seen the news, and that was where he got the inspiration from.
“Wow, its soon bedtime,” I say.
“Yeah, I didn’t want to disturb you, since you were writing,” Nick replies apologetically.
“Thank you.” Mia always comes in at six or leaves at six. Unsure of what caused my confusion, I walk toward my mother, whom Mia has put to bed. I can tell she isn’t asleep, but she is tired. Her physical therapist came in today, and Dr. Taliv added a new medication, diamorphine, to her meds for pain.
A portrait of her favorite artist hangs on the wall opposite her bed. I smile at it, recalling how Zoe and I used to laugh at the woman’s expression in the picture. I make sure to turn on the baby monitor, then turn off the dainty lamp on the bedside table. I have become used to the beeping of the monitor. Mia had suggested I use it to avoid getting out of bed so often. It works. But I also set alarms so I can check on her regularly.
“So, it’s just you and your mum?” Nick’s deep voice breaks into the room.
“Yeah,” I say, pulling a cover over my mother as I walk toward the dining room.
“Has it always been just you and your mum?” he asks as he follows me. I throw him a look over my shoulder. Then again, he’s just curious. I would also be, arriving in a new town, sceptical of accepting accommodation from a stranger.
“No, I have a sister. A very free-spirited sister,” I say with a pained smile.
“Free-spirited?”
“Oh, she travels a lot...” I turn to him, “...very spiritual, loves outdoors, and is a people person. The opposite of me.” I chuckle as I bend toward the kitchen cabinet. I take out some pans, and it strikes me. I’d been talking about her in the present tense. And even though I realise it’s once again my disconformity with reality, it is for the best. I don’t want Nick asking too many questions.
“Is she on one of her travels?” he asks. “Is one of the rooms in the basement hers?”
“No.” I chuckle nervously. “No. She’s with my dad,” I say, pulling out two bowls from the cabinet.
“Oh?” Nick frowns. “She lives with him?”
I turn to him with a wavering frown. “Are you a journalist?” I half-joke, and his body recoils, taken aback.
“I apologise. I didn’t mean to intrude.”
“My, uhm,” I hesitate, “my mum and dad separated when I was five.”
“Oh. I’m sorry.”
“No worries.” I open the rice cooker and silently congratulate my past self for buying it. What a time saver. I serve the rice into the bowls, and just as he breathes in to ask the next question, I say, “I’m glad you told me about your allergies before you moved in.”
“Too many, right?” he jokes, reaching for one of the plastic plates with the scooped rice. “It’s still warm.”
“Not really,” I respond. Nick’s listed allergies were peanuts, milk, celery, and sesame. And though I first complained to myself about it, it wasn’t so much of a bother. After all, my mother also needed everything specially delivered.
I was not particularly eager to leave the house. It seemed the neighbours knew my father quite well. And, like every small town, news flies. On our first day here, more than a couple of elderly people stood outside, wishing us well and showing condolences for my father. Will you be here in town for a while? Did he die from cancer? Where are you from? Are you in town for the first time? Is your mother sick, too? They even bombarded me with questions while I tried to pick out discount meat at the store, which was why I now ordered for delivery. I was glad that, though it was a small town, it had that amenity of in-home delivery.
“What are you making tonight?” Nick rubs his chin. “Are you going to write more after dinner? I know it’s been a lot of work.”
“Don’t worry. I’m enjoying it, really,” I say convincingly. “It’s absolutely expected for you to love and hate some of it. And rewriting is something I’m used to.”
“Mostly loving,” he replies.
“Let’s see if I can go on after dinner. A ten-hour writing sprint feels heavy on my head,” I explain as I reach for an onion and a knife.
“I was wondering if we could get some more sleep and get an earlier start tomorrow. You’ll be taking care of your mum, so...” He shrugs. “Better if you rest.”
“That’s thoughtful of you, Nick.”
“I can’t wait for the story to be finished, though,” he says excitedly, yet demandingly.
I haven’t published before, so I can’t imagine the feeling that takes over authors when they hold the story they imagined on paper—a work of their own.
“In time,” I reply, my mind inevitably stuck in the story as Nick checks his phone. He has such intricate ideas, is very well-developed, and has an excellent background for his characters. They feel real, so instinctive that I can almost hear them speak while writing them. One of the victims, T, is the one who piques my interest. Rebellious and outspoken, she somewhat reminds me of Zoe. Like everything seems to do. I try to find a connection with her in everything, even with a fictitious character. I might be going insane.
“A penny for your thoughts,” Nick says. I gasped, startled. The knife slips just an inch away from my finger.
“That would have been bloody,” he adds. Nick points at the cutter with the chopped onions.
“Yeah.” I take a deep breath. “Bloody.”
“So, what were you thinking about?”
“I know it’s fiction, but...” I begin, cautious of crossing a line by being too insistent. He had made it clear he didn’t want the ending revealed until he felt it was right, but I can’t resist. “...was he ever caught?”
“Caught? Who?” he asks. I simultaneously pour vegetable oil into one pot and peanut oil into another pot. I have always loved cooking with peanut oil; its nutty smell gives the food a heavier, denser taste that feels like home. I picked up the taste for it from my mum while growing up, and she said it could be traced back to her family, who were from Senegal. Zoe was a fan of it, too.
“What are you making?” he asks.
“Sauce for the rice.” I stir the vegetables and onion while waiting for his response, which takes minutes.
“Oh.” His voice is quiet but deep. “The killer from the book.”
I glance toward him as he smiles.
“No, he wasn’t caught. That’s why the story is from his POV. He has cancer, and he is literally and figuratively dying to tell the world his story.”
“I see.” I pour onions into the pot, feeling a doubtful frown on my face. “But it’s fiction, right?”
“Of course!” He chuckles, and it makes me feel uneasy for a second. “Why?”
“Nothing, nothing.”
I take a deep breath as I dig deep into my painful memories. Never caught, just like the culprit responsible for Zoe. But then again, could someone be responsible? They concluded it had been an opioid overdose. And maybe I’d rest if I chose to believe it.
“The family,” I say.
“You can’t imagine the hope their family members have lost without closure?” he asks.
And so, I remember what Henry used to say whenever I told him my quiz scores weren’t meeting up to the expected point for the university. Have hope. And I remember reading about Nietzsche and what he said, ‘Hope, in reality, is the worst of all evils because it prolongs the torments of man.’
“Yes,” I say to myself, a reminder of what hope I held toward Zoe and my relationship with my mum, which was awfully bleak.
Nick continues talking about the story, then about himself and his family. He is the only son of a wealthy family from London, and his family expects him to become a doctor, but he wants to be a man of his own. He decided to move here to begin his journey. I listen with astonishment to his story, though most of the time, the sizzling sound of the food drowns out his voice.
“Food is ready,” I announce as I plate him vegetable fried rice with oven-baked chicken on the side.
“Thank you,” he says. “I’m sure you understand, as writers, we take things we see in stories very personally. I get sad for my characters sometimes.”
“Hmm.” I nod. A line crosses my lips, though deep inside, I know it’s a pretend smile.
I watch him dig into the food and give compliments here and there, but I can’t stop thinking about the hope the victims from his story held until their very end. They believed someone would save them, and I wonder if Zoe felt just so if she held hopes that we would come get her.
The detective had told us the heroin needle and toxicology report had caused them to have conclusive evidence that she died from a drug overdose. The pit in my stomach deepens as I try to drift away from those memories and choose instead to relive one with Zoe and Mum, which lightens my heart.
Chapter 5
EMMA
It’s been so long. I have no idea what happiness feels like or looks like to me. Happy is too strong a word for what I am feeling right now. I am not there yet. I am not ready to be happy, and I’m not at the point yet. What I’m feeling is different. I don’t feel heavy, either. My stomach feels airy, and I feel like I could easily smile.
Even small tugs to my lips have felt so rehearsed or overthought. But now, I feel free to smile...I know what it is.
Butterflies.
A hint of how this new project would be a resolution. How it would make us all happy.
And it is all because of Nick. I haven’t felt this way in a long while.
I haven’t looked forward to anything because every day has just been blending into one dreadful house sentence. The same routine of waking up to do the same task...but with Nick, I look forward to something exciting. Thrilling even.
The book.
The story.
My plans for the future.
I am actually doing something good for someone, something useful, and in turn, it would help me be a better daughter to my mother. Nick symbolised a bucket of hope for me and my mum.
Soon, it will be a full novel, and I will be paid and be able to get my mum the best treatments. Maybe she’ll get better, and we’ll be a family again. Well...as much as just two of us can be. Half-family, perhaps, is what I should call it.
“Good morning,” I greet, my voice coming out small and scratchy as I make my way toward Mum’s bed. I blush embarrassingly and clear my throat.
Mia turns away from my mother and over to me. As soon as her eyes land on mine, she smiles, then turns back to finish adjusting my mother’s bed. “You’re up late.”
I nod, walking over to the other side of the bed. Mum has her eyes closed, her chest rising and falling to show that she is breathing well, and her skin looks a bit better than it usually does. “Yeah...” I say absently.
“That’s great. You really need sleep and rest. Weeks of this, and you’ll be glowing.”
My lips barely twitch in a smile, and I feel the need to explain. “I stayed up talking to Nick yesterday. And we had a late dinner. That’s probably why I slept in. Maybe too tired.”
“Whatever caused it doesn’t really matter. The fact is, it’s good, and you need more of it,” Mia says. The spoon she was holding falls on the tray with a loud clatter, startling me. She gasps. “Oh, my God!”
“What?” I ask, perking up and trying to see what the problem is.
Mia lets out faltering breaths, her hands cupping her face. They drag down as her shoulders drop. “I-I’m sorry...I think I made a mistake.”
My heart skips a beat, and my eyes quickly snap to my mum. “What? W-what mistake?”
“Your mum takes a 0.5, but I think I just gave her a 0.7...Emma...”
“Um...” I reply, not knowing what to do. Mum still looks the same and holds the same empty expression on her face, but my anxiety heightens.
Mia must have sensed my slight panic because she turned to me. “Don’t worry,” she says softly, closing her eyes briefly. “I’ll keep an eye on her, check her vitals, and I won’t leave until I’m sure she’s okay—”
“It’s okay,” I cut her off, blinking blankly at my mum. Then I turn to look at Mia. She looks confused. “It’s really okay, Mia.” It doesn’t feel okay. I feel like my knees could give out on me anytime soon, but it’s a mistake.
And I wouldn’t allow anything to happen. I couldn’t. I’m supposed to take care of her and be the best daughter I can be. I brought Mia here, trying to make amends. I did it all in the hope that Mum would forgive me and we could bond again. The mistake... it makes me feel useless once more. Maybe nothing can make up for it. Maybe I’ll always be the inadequate, incapable daughter.
“Sorry doesn’t cut it!” Nick’s warning voice breaks through the silence, and the wood creaks loudly under his feet as he steps into the room. “Do you know how many people die from an overdose every second, month, or year?” Nick’s eyes move from Mia to me. “That could be fatal.”
“No, it’s okay,” I say, shaking my head at him. “Really,” I reassure Mia.
He sighs, his expression softening up. “My grandmother died from an insulin shock.” His body relaxes, and his hands leave his pockets.
“Oh!” I gasp, but Mia’s is way louder, and mine goes unnoticed.
“I’m so sorry, Nick,” Mia says, walking to him. She places a comforting hand on his shoulder.
“But she is at peace now,” Nick says, giving Mia a small smile to show his appreciation for her sympathy.
Maybe it’s just my paranoia or the novel getting to me, but I can’t help but notice the way he feels relaxed talking about the death of a loved one and how he says the word ‘peace.’ Do we really know if the dead are at peace? I shake my head—that seems a bit too into deep-thinking.
He shrugs. “I made the mistake that cost her her life.”
“How old were you?” I ask. I pray I haven’t overstepped.
“Eleven,” Nick says. “My parents were always so busy, and I was left as her caregiver. Someone had to do it.” He shrugs. “It’s, uhm...it’s tough to feel so responsible over someone while you haven’t had the chance to be responsible over yourself. I felt robbed of my young years for a long time, and...” He stops with an unsure smile. Mia and I nod in comprehension. “It got lonely.”
Mia sits down on the single couch, then pats the armrest of the bigger couch beside her for us to sit down. Without question, we follow. Nick sits close to her while I perch on the armrest furthest from the two and watch them.
“The routine was simple.” He looks away as though recalling every second of it. “Wake up, make my own breakfast, go to school, come back, and get stuck taking care of her. Feeding her, bathing her, giving her her drug,” he continues without missing a beat. “At that time, I didn’t mind, and I didn’t know just how much I was missing out on. My parents made it so important!” He emphasised, “Which it was. But it was so important it became a burden. A burden I couldn’t shake off, a burden that haunted my mind and kept me rooted in fear of messing up.” He sighs. “I eventually messed up, and it didn’t go well.”
