Killing Katie (An Affair With Murder) (Volume 1) (22 page)

“Could have done more, done something sooner,” I answered sleepily. He’d never know just how much at fault I really was. He’d never know that
I
was the one who’d ordered breakfast. “I’m sorry. I need more time.”

Steve lifted the lip of the comforter, slipping his hand inside my tiny protective world. I shivered at the early winter air that crept in uninvited and felt gooseflesh rise on my arms.

“Come on, babe,” he began to say as he pushed the comforter back.

“What are you doing?” I scolded, angry that he’d broken my cocoon.

“Let me help you,” he said, but I stayed confused and uncertain about what he meant.

His hands were beneath me then—fingers crawling, scrunching, fishing from front to back, one arm beneath my shoulders and the other beneath my legs.

“No, babe,” I objected. “That’s not what I want to do.” But there was no flirting in his touch, only tenderness and care, the kind I’d seen shared between old couples, the kind I’d always imagined us becoming. He lifted me without hesitation or strain, and I felt my body rise into the air.

“Don’t worry,” he answered. “That isn’t what I have in mind.”

Instinctively, I wrapped my arms around his neck and laid my head on his shoulder. It had been years since he had picked me up like that, but my body fell into his arms, remembering. His smell woke me up too. I nuzzled against him and tightened my grip on him, wanting to stay like that, wanting to tell him everything.

What if I told him the truth about the buttons and the homeless man? What if he knew that it was my fault that Katie was dead? Would he stay?

In my heart, I always thought he’d be there no matter what. But the mother of two boys—Michael’s closest friends—was dead.

Steve carried me to the bathroom. The sound of running water rushed around me. He eased me down, leaning me against the wall. He took my hands in his. I opened my eyes, finding the room bathed in golden light from a dozen burning candles. The walls and mirror were sweaty from the heat of the drawn bath, water still running, a layer of bubbles wading atop the surface. A tall glass of wine was perched on one side of the tub, a carafe next to it on a small plate of cheese and fruit.

“Lift,” he said, taking my hands in his and urging me to raise my arms. I did as he asked and he pulled my bedtime T-shirt over my head. He disappeared then, crouching, and slid my underpants down my legs. The instructions came again, “Lift.”

“Why are you doing this?”

“What?” he asked, standing to face me, looking hurt by my question.

I didn’t want him to help me through this. I deserved to feel bad. The tears came then, powerful, painful, zapping what little strength I had.

“She was my best friend,” I managed to say, feeling my legs turn to jelly as I fell to my knees. I cried harder than I’d cried all day. “I feel like I can’t even breathe without her.”

Steve knelt in front of me, tears wet on his cheeks. “I know this is hard,” he began. “But it does get better. Come on.” I put my arm around my husband and let him help me. I was drained, exhausted, too tired and filled with shame to do anything.

I dipped myself into the hot water, sinking up to my chin, disappearing into the cloud of soapy bubbles as they raced to the edges of the tub. Steve rolled up his sleeves and dropped his hand beneath the water, pulling my arm up. He began to sponge my skin. My sobs had settled into rattles that I chased with a gulp of wine. I tried choking back another wave of sobs, finishing my glass and refilling it, but could only shake my head and let them happen.

“Now tell me everything,” Steve said, pushing the sponge around my back and across my neck. He gently rubbed my side next, brushing against me in a way that was soothing and intimate and loving. But his words put me on guard, leaving me to wonder if he knew something. I shook my head, confused. “Tell me everything about Katie. All of your fondest memories.”

“Oh,” I answered, leaning over to kiss his arm. I tried to smile, but nothing came.

“Just start with one,” he encouraged me. “A small story.”

Both of Steve’s hands were in the tub with me, massaging the soap, causing a small wake that lapped against my bare skin. When the bubbles separated enough to show my nipples, I shivered in the cold.

“Need more bubbles,” I said, suggesting without asking. I turned the knob on the hot water faucet with my toes while he emptied the bottle of the remaining bubble bath into the running water.

“All out—” he began to say.

“There’s more under the sink,” I finished for him. And, as I should have expected, the sound of hollow thumps came when his clumsy hands knocked over my personals.

The shirt!
I suddenly remembered.

I hastily added, “Or maybe not!”

Steve jumped at my voice. I’d forgotten about the shirt. Balled up and stained with Todd Wilts’ semen.

“Hold on, I think I have it,” he said, his arm lost up to his shoulder under the cupboard, but I could tell he was moving around. “What’s this?”

I shook my head. “Please. Don’t worry about it, babe.”

“Got it,” he said, producing the bottle. Hot water crept over my legs, rising to my middle and then hugged my belly and breasts while Steve stirred in the bubble bath.

“And how did you do that, anyway?” he asked, moving my hair away from my forehead. “I saw it earlier, covered up with makeup, but didn’t want to ask in front of Jerry.” Steve’s hand drifted from above my eye and down to my cheek. I cupped his hand in mine, kissing his palm.

“Snacks,” I answered shamelessly. “Caught one of her toys in a tantrum.”

“I think you need to go see your mother,” he said abruptly, sneaking in the suggestion when I would have least expected it.

The idea of visiting my mother hit me like a stone and made me groan. I dropped his hand and shut off the hot water, kicking the faucet’s knob with a thump. The valve snapped shut, and he gave me a look that asked me to take it easy. Sensitive plumbing. Sensitive subject. The
last
thing I wanted to do was visit my mother.

“Why?” I asked, sounding distracted while I worked the sponge over my neck and shoulders. There was a long silence between us, filled with thousands of foamy bubbles erupting, popping with each squeeze of my hand. Steve took the sponge from my hands and wrung it out. He washed my front but kept his touch innocent. I stared long and hard into his eyes, watching my reflection. Finally, he answered.

“Your mom should hear about Katie, but not on the radio. The news—as hard as it is—should come from you,” he explained. “She shouldn’t hear about it on the news.” I supposed he was right. I laid against the back of the tub, making a swell of water rise against the sides and douse his rolled sleeves. He didn’t flinch. If my mother was going to hear about Katie, she
should
hear it from me. Katie was the daughter my mom always wanted; I was the best friend that parents dreaded their daughter bringing home.

T
HE DOORBELL RANG
, a sharp noise that caused my skin to crawl. I clutched my shoulder, shielding myself from the interruption. I felt awkwardly sensitive and tried ignoring the distraction, but remained still in a restless stance.

“I wish they would go away, leave our house alone,” I muttered. “It’s better to be alone, anyway.”

Since Katie’s death, I hadn’t seen anyone other than Steve—even the kids had been scooped up and hauled away to give me some grieving space.

Alone time
, as Steve’s mother had put it.
Amy just needs some alone time.

She offered to take them before leaving for her annual trip to Florida. I nodded, hesitant, but half agreed. Michael fixed me a puppy-dog look that made me want to cry, but he listened to his father and grandmother, taking to the backseat of her old sedan with a brief wave. And Snacks blindly followed her older brother, nary a question about where they were going. Another bell came from the door, followed by a rap against the glass. I cursed under my breath and thought about going upstairs and hiding beneath the folds of flannel sheets and the down comforter. But when I peered through the door’s smoky glass and saw the outline of a man shuffling back and forth, my heart warmed. I recognized the figure at once, and welcomed the sight.

The dinner ritual, the one where Steve’s boss, Charlie, hands down the keys to his new job, had never taken place. My work in the alley with the homeless man had had a play in that hand. But it was a necessary tradition at the station, and Charlie wasn’t going to retire officially until after all formalities had been properly concluded. That’s what he told his wife, but I tend to think he was hanging on for as long as possible just to piss her off. She wasn’t shy about complaining to anyone who’d listen: “Charlie should have retired five years ago. I waited thirty years. It’s my turn to have him.” And so, on the second day after Katie’s death, Charlie decided to visit our home and to make things official.

I opened our door, greeting him. He wrung his arms together, batting a chill, and motioned to come in without asking.

“Yes, of course. Please,” I told him. Steve joined me as Charlie blotted out the light from outside while he shuffled his feet on the foyer’s throw rug. The cold had made his nose run while a soft wind had teared up his eyes. He snatched a knitted cap from atop his head, revealing a poof of cloudy white curls that matched his wiry brows. His smile warmed me with grandfatherly affection; it showed fat dimples on his rosy cheeks. Although it was almost midday, the winter cold seeped in from the north, leaving the recent warm spell to become an abandoned memory.

“Winter’s coming fast, I think,” he said, clapping his hands against his arms. “That, or my thermostat is turned to Florida weather.” He laughed at his own joke, which got me and Steve chuckling. Charlie brought a warm vibe into our home. Without the kids around, the air had become heavy with sadness, so much so that it had begun to feel normal. I think I needed a jolt from my sulky brooding, like a good stretch after staying in one position for too long.

“I think you’re right,” I added. “Colder than it’s been.”

“That it is, darling,” he agreed. His face turned serious then, almost grim, and he cupped my arms in his thick hands. “And how are you holding up?”

Angst nipped at me, just a bite—a tiny razor bite—but it was enough to cause my lip to twitch and tremble. I said nothing, but swallowed hard and blinked away the sudden emotion.

“She’s strong,” Steve said for me, rubbing my back.

“There, there,” Charlie said, his arms circling around me in a hug. He was a bear of a man, and I disappeared from the world for a moment while he finished his condolences. “It’s so tough when we lose a close friend. Hang in there, kiddo.”

“I will,” I was able to squeak out.

“Me and the missus are very sorry for your loss.”

“Thank you,” I told him as we made our way into the kitchen. “And I am sorry we never got to reschedule our dinner.”

Charlie swung a large white bag up from behind him then, “Romeo’s” dressing the side in a bright-red cursive script. “I took the liberty of ordering the most popular items. Thought we could make this a bit of a working lunch too, if that’s okay? Put this tradition to bed once and for all.”

“I’m fine with that,” Steve said, but then motioned to me. “Is that okay?”

“Oh yeah,” I answered, appreciating that Steve had asked. “You two would have talked shop no matter what, anyway. Am I right?”

Charlie laughed, a hearty chortle that sounded unfamiliar in our house. “She’s got us pegged.”

The three of us set the table and got out the take-out containers. I couldn’t remember the last time I had eaten—then I thought back to the lunch with Katie. But we never ate, we just drank.

Has it been days,
I wondered?

My stomach grumbled, agreeing with that estimate when the smell of the food wafted up from the pasta and red sauce. I was hurting inside, but I was hungry too.

“We should buy your mother a gift card from Romeo’s,” I told Steve. “Say thank you for taking care of the kids.” I missed Snacks and Michael, but understood that Steve and his mother meant well and were only trying to help. Still, I think we might have been wrong. Selfishly, I needed them home, needed to hear them in the house, playing, fighting, asking to have something to eat. I needed them to help fill the hole that was growing inside me and to take away some of the ache that came with it.

“Dig in,” Charlie said abruptly. I passed him a fresh napkin, digging out a cloth one after a cheap paper one shredded and disintegrated against his clammy forehead. The sight was funny enough, and he laughed it off. It wasn’t hot in our house—not even warm, but Charlie tended to sweat and wheeze. And I thought sadly that his wife probably had more to concern herself with than just retiring. “Don’t tell the missus, but I ordered extra parmesan cheese on the chicken. Got extra bread too.”

“What and when?” Steve began, wasting no time. I was fine with a work discussion, having realized just how hungry I was after that initial bite of food. “What have you got and when do you need it by?”

“Was hoping to have less on our docket, but the cases seem to be piling up lately, and the missus and I have got a date to keep,” Charlie answered.

“Do you really want to retire?” I asked, making light of Charlie’s pending retirement date. Secretly, I was hoping he’d stay. I felt a twinge of selfishness and then wrestled with a familiar fear. Steve caught the tone in my voice, and in turn, I caught his glance and arched brow. I’d convinced myself that when Steve filled Charlie’s shoes, taking over all the cases and the team, he would get lost in his new role and forget about going to law school. But what scared me more was that I knew Steve would love every minute of it.

“Now, now. You know the answer to that, don’t you?” Charlie said, and winked. “But I think the wife might have something to say about that.”

“Sorry she couldn’t join us,” Steve added, changing the subject.

“Appreciate that,” Charlie answered. He patted my arm, apologizing for Vickie’s absence. “The missus couldn’t break her appointment. That realtor is just a pain in my ass, but she’ll stop by before the move.”