Page 36 of Kill Your Darlings

Thom moved forward on the balls of his feet, racing across the concrete apron and shoving Bryce in the lower back.

Wendy’s husband expelled a sound, a squeal that seemed to come more from being frightened than from the physicality of being shoved.

He landed in the water, awkwardly, his arms flailing, his face slapping the surface.

For five seconds he churned in place, his head coming up, shouting something unintelligible.

Thom had already spotted the pool skimmer used to scoop leaves and made his way to it, thinking that if he could get the net around Bryce’s big head he could hold him under that way.

But when he reached the skimmer Bryce was still flailing in the water, being dragged down by his waterlogged sweatshirt, now clearly shouting out “Help!” whenever he could get his mouth above the surface.

Bryce was so frantic that it wasn’t even clear if he knew that Thom was there.

Thom crouched, keeping an eye on him, now steadily but slowly working himself to the edge of the pool, trying not to swallow water.

He was nearly there when he went under again, quietly almost. Then he seemed to have one last burst of energy and managed to get a hand on the pool’s edge, lifting his head one last time above the water and seeing Thom looming above him.

Bryce’s eyes lit up with hope at the sight of Thom, and he seemed to say something, but his mouth was full of water.

In his excitement his hand had come off the pool’s edge.

Thom went down to his knees and leaned forward, placing his hand on the top of Bryce’s head and pushing.

There was no resistance, Bryce went under again and Thom held him there for half a minute—or longer; he wasn’t sure.

When he took his hand away, Bryce had stopped moving.

His cigar, snuffed out now, bumped against the edge of the pool.

For one absurd moment Thom thought of Caddyshack , a film he’d loved when he was twelve, the cigar reminding him of the candy bar floating in the pool that everyone thought

was something else.

Thom stayed where he was, watching Bryce bobbing in the pool, his arms outstretched. Another film crept into his mind. A dead

man in a pool, filmed from below. Sunset Boulevard . The night was quiet again, not even the sound of coyotes in the distance. He kept waiting for a team of police to race in

from somewhere, or for Bryce’s father to emerge from the big house, but nothing had changed. Except that Bryce had fallen

into the pool and drowned.

Thom stood, and as he did, the below-water pool lights turned off. A wave of fear jolted him, but he told himself the lights

were on an automatic timer. He checked his watch. It was ten o’clock exactly.

At first, he thought the voice was coming from the pool house, but it was actually coming from the concrete path that led

from the front of the main house. A female voice. “Hello,” she said again, loudly.

Thom’s body went cold and rigid. He could see her walking toward the pool, along a path illuminated by lights that were built

into the ground. The fence was behind him, and he could quickly go over the top of it and run back toward his car. But it

was too late. She’d see him and then she’d see the body. He and Wendy had already decided that Bryce’s death needed to be

an accident.

Without even thinking about it, he walked, moving fast, around the pool toward the woman, and said, “Hi there,” in a voice that sounded fairly normal in his own ears.

“There you are,” she said, and to his relief she stopped walking toward him. She was around his age, wearing a very short

skirt and a fuzzy sweater that glowed in the lamplight. Her hair formed a dark halo around her head. Her perfume competed

with the smell of chlorine that hung in the air.

“Bryce isn’t here,” Thom said.

“Oh, you’re not Bryce,” she said, unclasping her purse, and for a moment Thom wondered if she was going to remove a police

badge, or maybe a gun.

“No. I was here looking for him.”

“Okay,” the woman said. She was now tapping out a cigarette from a hard pack. “This is Bryce’s address, though, right?” She

had a strong Texas accent.

“It is,” Thom said, his mind rapidly calculating how to get her to leave before she noticed the body in the pool. “But he

definitely isn’t here.”

“Okay,” the woman said, drawing it out. Thom had no idea what the situation was, but this woman was coming over as some sort

of blind date. “You don’t think he’ll be coming back soon then?”

“Um, I don’t think so.” Thom was suddenly aware that his right hand and the sleeve of his sweatshirt were wet. He rubbed it

against his thigh, and felt this woman’s eyes flick down, taking it in. “Hand’s wet,” Thom said, and laughed.

“If he comes, tell him Holly was here, ’kay?” She dragged at her cigarette and took two steps back, not quite turning around.

“Will do,” Thom said, and his own words came out wrong in his head. He suddenly seemed to have a Texas accent as well.

Holly turned and walked back down the path, moving faster than she had when she’d ambled onto the scene.

When she turned the corner Thom turned himself, speed-walking past the dark pool, Bryce’s body just visible bobbing in the deep end, then hoisted himself up and over the fence.

He quickly checked his compass, pointing it northwest, and began to run, not paying attention to the contours of the ground this time, just running, his mind calculating at an equally furious pace.

She’d gotten a good look at him, but did that even make a difference?

Would she even hear about the local rich boy who’d fallen into a pool and drowned?

And if she did, would she go to the police to tell them she’d been there and seen someone else?

He was acting totally strange, Officer, and I think his hand was wet.

Thom just didn’t know. All he knew was that it had gone so right and then suddenly it had gone so wrong. His foot landed

hard in a divot in the ground and he stumbled but didn’t fall, kept running. The church was now visible, lit only by starlight,

but to its right he could make out the headlights of a car skimming through the dark. If the woman, if Holly, had turned right

out of the Barrington homestead, then that was probably her. If she’d turned left she’d be gone forever, but why would she

turn left? Lubbock was back past the church.

He’d lost sight of the car by the time he got back to his rental, but he jumped into the driver’s seat, inserted the key,

and started the rental up, backing up into the road, spraying gravel. He had been driving for two minutes before he realized

his headlights weren’t on. He couldn’t remember where the switch for the lights was but managed to flick them on just as he

was reaching an intersection, the only car ahead of him taking a left that would lead back to downtown. He followed at a distance.

He couldn’t be sure that he was following the car being driven by Holly, but there was a good chance it was her. He hadn’t

seen any other cars on the road since driving back from Happy Lake.

As they neared Lubbock, traffic picked up.

Thom had read somewhere, probably in a detective novel, that trailing a car at night was relatively easy because most cars’ rear lights were noticeably unique.

He found this was the case. The car he was following had thin rectangular rear lights set far apart.

He kept his eyes on them, not worried if other cars slid between him and the car he was following.

They had entered a busy part of town, a string of bars, college kids coming and going along the sidewalk, then the car took a sharp left down a less populous street, tall buildings on either side.

The car was going slow, and he wondered if she was looking for parking.

He hung back, but she’d stopped the car and he had to keep going.

He took a chance and glanced in her direction as he slowly drove past, almost surprised to find that he was following the correct car.

There was Holly, same big hair, a lit cigarette between her lips, beginning to back into a spot just big enough for her compact Nissan.

Thom took the first right he could and immediately parked, partially blocking an alleyway entrance between a college bookstore

and what looked like a museum with an enormous sheet-glass facade. Both of the buildings were dark. One moment he was sitting

there, overcome by what he believed he needed to do, and the next he was outside of the car, the knife in his hand. Maybe

he could simply threaten her, or even beg her, tell her to never mention this to anyone or he would find her and hurt her.

But would that really work? He began to move back in the direction where she’d been parking the car. As he was coming up to

the cross street, knife in his hand, but still folded, the woman turned the corner and they were face-to-face.

“Oh, it’s you,” she said, her eyes confused. He jumped on top of her and together they crashed to the sidewalk. The breath

must have been knocked out of her lungs, because she opened her mouth to scream but nothing came out. It was like a silent

movie.