Page 83 of We Live Here Now

82

Freddie

Oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck.

I slide down the kitchen counter to the floor, unable to take my eyes off her. She’s dead. Her eyes are empty and her hands have stopped moving. How did she die so fast? I didn’t even realize I’d stabbed her. I was so angry and I gripped the knife tighter and then… I can’t even finish the thought. I think I’m going to puke. Oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck.

This is not a suicide. There is no way I can make this look like a suicide. There’s blood all over the kitchen floor. Oh god, I’m going to prison. I’ve murdered my fucking wife.

From outside I hear feet on the gravel, men smoking and laughing, and my sudden white-cold panic forces me into action. I quickly lock the front door and then stare at Emily’s body. She can’t stay there on the kitchen floor. Until I know what I’m going to do, I need to get her out of the way. Put her upstairs. The spare bedroom maybe? I scrub blood from my hands and then take a few deep breaths, trying to calm my shaking body. I need all my strength to pick up her dead weight, and she slips and slops around as I try to get purchase. I take a breath and put into practice how I helped lift her in the hospital before she could walk.

Oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck.

The spare bedroom will still be too risky. What if more than one worker needs the loo?

The room at the top of the house. That’s where I’ll put her.

She can stay in there for now.