The End of Her - Shari Lapena Page 0,100

in the chair she always sits in at meals, the one facing the entry to the kitchen, leaving Patrick his usual chair, with its back to the door.

She watches him open the kitchen cabinet where they keep the liquor. He takes out two glasses. ‘What do you want?’ he asks.

‘I’ll have what you’re having.’ When he looks back at her, surprised, she says, ‘I could use something strong.’

He nods. Usually he drinks whisky neat. He pours them each a generous amount. She’s thinking it’s good that he’s handling the bottle, the glasses. She’s thinking that when it’s over, she’ll wash her glass thoroughly and put it back in the cupboard if there’s time before the ambulance shows up. Better if he was drinking alone, she thinks, while she was in the shower. She’s lucky that the twins are so young that they are safely contained in their cribs. It would be much trickier to pull this off if they were older.

They won’t even remember their father, they’re too young. She can control the narrative, make it what she wants. She’ll have to move away, though, start over somewhere else, but not too far away. Maybe she will go back to using her maiden name. Yes, she will.

‘Stephanie,’ he begins, sitting down at the table, across from her. ‘You know how sorry I am.’

She nods without meeting his eyes. She doesn’t want to hear his apologies, his explanations all over again. It’s too late for that. What do they say? By the time most couples make it to marriage counselling, usually one of them has already decided it’s over.

‘I’ve been thinking about the future,’ he says finally.

She’ll play along, to keep him at the table, drinking. She no longer cares what he says. She’s found her own solution.

‘Maybe I should start my own architectural firm.’

She nods. No one else will have him; he doesn’t have much choice. She sips her drink. It goes hot down her throat, steadying her nerves. She needs the whisky – just enough to give her courage, but not enough to make her careless.

‘It will probably take a lot of money to start, before it becomes profitable.’

‘There’s a surprise,’ she says. She can’t help it.

He bites his lip, as if hurt by her tone. Then he picks up his glass and finishes it off in one go. He reaches for the bottle and pours himself another.

Good, she thinks. He’s completely oblivious to what’s going to happen next. There isn’t going to be any new firm. She has to turn her eyes away as he talks. She decides to play along. What difference does it make? None of this is ever going to happen. She pretends to consider what he’s saying. She takes another sip of her drink, watching his face lighten a little at the prospect of getting her on board. At least he’ll be happy when he dies.

He leans in closer, across the table, telling her more about his plans, but she’s only pretending to listen. She must be pretending pretty well because he won’t shut up about it. He pours himself another drink. She’ll never get a better opportunity.

‘Hold that thought,’ she says. ‘I have to pee. I’ll be right back.’

CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN

SHE HURRIES UPSTAIRS. She feels her face change as soon as she leaves the kitchen. She’s cold, purposeful, remorseless. She walks quickly to the bathroom and closes the door, loudly enough, but from outside, in the hall. She hurries quietly into the bedroom, where she strips off all her clothes and drops them on the bed. Once she’s naked, she grabs the latex gloves from her nightstand and puts them on. She goes to the closet and turns the combination to the safe with trembling hands. The door swings open and she grabs the gun. She returns to the bathroom, opens the door very quietly and steps inside. She catches sight of her reflection briefly in the large mirror over the vanity. She hardly recognizes herself. She’s completely naked except for the pale-blue latex gloves from the grocery store. And she’s holding a gun in her right hand. She flushes the toilet, runs the tap; she wants everything to sound normal to Patrick. She doesn’t want to arouse any suspicion when he thinks she went upstairs to pee.

She moves quietly down the carpeted stairs. She prays he doesn’t turn around when she gets to the kitchen. He shouldn’t – why would he? She arrives at the entrance to the kitchen silently in bare feet.