Page 75 of Too Old for This

She has turned over a table or a chair. Something breaks on the floor. Her wineglass, the trinket bowl—maybe both.

Deep breath.

She doesn’t know her way around my house, and that’s my advantage. She can’t find me if she can’t figure it out.

I yell, “Norma!”

Silence. Then footsteps.

She runs over to the study door and tries the handle. “Goddammit, open this door!”

More footsteps.

I hear the hard clink of metal. It comes from the fireplace.

“Did you ever ask Plum why all her docuseries were about people wrongfully accused of crimes?” I ask.

Silence.

“Did you ever wonder why she was so obsessed with their stories?”

“Open this door!” she screams.

“It was because you abandoned her when she was a baby.”

“Shut up! You don’t know anything about—”

“Plum hated you for that,” I say. “She was trying to find an excuse for you. She didn’t want you to be as terrible as you are. Her whole life was about trying to excuse what you did. But you know what? She couldn’t. She still hated you.”

I don’t know if this is true or not. I’m just trying to get under Norma’s skin. Maybe Plum did feel that way about her mother. It would certainly make sense. Either way, it doesn’t matter. Only Norma’s reaction does.

Her scream is followed by a huge thump.

That bitch hit my door with the fireplace poker. It’s stuck in the solid wood. She pulls on it, trying to get it out.

I head for the other door, go through the laundry room andinto the kitchen. My phone is on the counter, right where it always is.

Almost there.

Just a few more steps, and I’ll be out the door, free to call 911. The police will arrest this drunken, delusional woman who tied me up in my own home.

But I stop.

My cane is in the corner, next to the breakfast table. The one with the solid brass handle.

I pick it up. I also grab a kitchen knife.

CHAPTER 41

Knock, knock.

I bang my cane against the washing machine. The brass hits it like a bell, and the sound rings out, loud enough for Norma to hear. She stops trying to stab the study door with that fireplace poker.

“Normaaaaaa…”

I picture her face. That peach fuzz and the wrinkles around her lips from smoking. I can see her turning around, trying to figure out where my voice is coming from, looking like someone out of a cartoon.

“You bitch!” she screams.