Your Mid-Week Update for 08/26/20

I tried to write an update last week but it was just a series of incoherent swearing. Even now, I don’t know what good telling you will do for me. I feel lost and scared and hurt and angry and I don’t know what to do next.

Heather lied to me – to us – about the reason she called me that day. You remember when she called me at five o’clock in the morning, drunk off her ass, and I drove five hours each way to pick her up? And she told me she was lonely and scared and the police had found her husband’s body but she was ultimately exonerated? And then I welcomed her into my home for months and let her be a part of my family because she was my best friend and I missed her and I cared about her?

It was all bullshit.

Nope, that’s a lie: the day I came to pick her up, she was drunk.

We drove out to pick up some of her things last week – seeing as I was sure that she’d be with us for a while. As I was helping her pack, I found a box under her bed that she tried very hard to keep me from looking in (which, of course, meant that I had to look in it). I thought it would be dildos or a gun or some embarrassing school photos.

It was my journals.

My fucking journals that someone stole while I was on the run with my family. The journals that contain all the evidence anyone would need to destroy my life.

Heather had them this entire time and she never told me. I asked her about it, because I was not about to let her back with my family unless I knew I could trust her. I don’t know what I expected her excuse to be, but I was not expecting her to tell me that she had been approached by the police last year, saying they had proof that she’d murdered her husband and used it as leverage to get information on me.

Apparently, she refused to help and when she wasn’t arrested, she realized that it was a trap. So, she went to the house and searched for evidence of my crimes and took them. She’s been keeping my secret ever since.

Except earlier this year, she was contacted by a woman who said she was with the FBI and knew all about our relationship and actually convinced Heather to spy on me.

That was her big reveal. She’s been recording my family’s activities for months, gathering information. The only reason she hasn’t turned us in yet is because apparently, she loves us more.

That’s what she said.

“I love you all too much to betray you.”

Like a fucking soap opera.

I don’t know what to believe anymore. I’ve seen the call logs and read her notes and it seems she’s been telling the truth – after a few weeks living with us, she cut off all communication. We didn’t do anything of note in that time and we don’t know if they actually were FBI.

Considering I’m not writing to you from the electric chair, it’s safe to say that something else is going on. But I don’t know what to do. I’ve taken Heather with me and we got James and Casey to stay home for the next few weeks. The four of us are holed up in the house claiming a need to quarantine, while I think of a plan to confirm whether or not my family is in danger again.

I’m starting to wonder if this murder business is more trouble than it’s worth.

As for Heather, she’s locked in the basement, well fed and clothed with plenty of things to do. But she’s not going anywhere until I decide what to do with her.

What would you do if your best friend betrayed you – and you had to ability to hide the body?

As always, dear readers,

Stay Safe

Across the Hall - A Short Story

You think about the man across the hall.

He’s lived in the building forever, according to the old woman on the first floor – a nice woman; you should probably visit her more often if you could bring yourself to care. You met him on your second day. You rode the elevator together and for a moment, you wondered if he was following you. It wouldn’t be the first time. It certainly wouldn’t be the last.

His footsteps followed yours, beat by beat. Your eyes darted back to him every few seconds and every time, he was staring back, a small smile on his face. You tightened the grip on the keys in your pocket, with every step, you formulate your plan. You can turn and scream, startle him and attract the attention of your neighbours. Although neighbours in other buildings have previously proven to be less than reliable in coming to anyone’s aid, if you were to throw him off balance, you could make a run for the elevator. Baring that, you could use your keys. Scratch any exposed skin and get out. The goal was to get away from the hallway. Up here, you were trapped. He kept smiling. It was eerily calm and you forced yourself to smile back. Only a few more feet to your door. Time to make a move.

But then he turned left instead of right at the end of the hallway and you felt your chest relax. Your head spun. You held the door for balance but you couldn’t focus. The buzzing in your ears was too strong.

He called to you and your head hit the door when you turned. He said “hello” like nothing was wrong. When you reached out to shake his hand, the ring of keys fell to the floor. He admired your keychain but lingered too long on your apartment key. You gave him your name and his smile brightened. How could you think his intentions were sinister? He seemed friendly and calm but not aggressively approachable. Your fingers brushed when he gave you back your keys. A little too rough but it reminded you of how long it’s been since your fingers brushed anyone else’s. You miss it. You miss him. So, you pulled back and offered a quiet goodbye to the man across the hall.

Objectively, he was quite attractive. Now that you weren’t afraid to walk the halls with him, you took the time to observe him in the elevator. He was sweet; kind to everyone in the building but somehow, his gentleness wasn’t annoying. He became someone you wanted to know better – someone who put you at ease. You looked forward to the days when you would share the elevator or walk down the hall together. Anticipated it, in fact. If you waited ten minutes on Wednesday mornings, you could walk to the main door with him. If you power walked home on Monday nights, you could meet him around the corner. His scheduled was varied but you figured it out, and those few extra minutes with the cutie across the hall always brightened your day. He seemed responsive: holding the door for you, straightening up when he saw you, shyly asking you out one day as you stood in your respective doorways. How could you not say yes?

He walked you down the hall, his steps followed yours, beat by beat. You didn’t feel the need to speak but as you turned your separate ways, he cleared his throat. His voice was quiet, nervous, but his words were sure – rehearsed. He wanted to get to know you better, take you to dinner. Of course, you accepted.

The date was perfect. Even if you had very little in common, he was the perfect gentleman and he cleaned up well. If you didn’t immediately find things in common, you would eventually find things. Relationships are about making it work. This was a relationship, wasn’t it? He liked you, you liked him. What more was there?

You started to watch him – observe him, really. You wanted to know everything about him. You needed to find some common ground. It was hard to find him when you weren’t together. You knew where he worked but didn’t want to bother him and you had a job of your own. But afterwards…where did he disappear to? Surely a boy like that wouldn’t be hard to miss in a crowd. You knew him, could sense him, what was it he didn’t want you to know?

You tell yourself you aren’t obsessing. You’re curious about your partner and want to get to know him better – to borrow his phrase. You’re seeking commonality in order to strengthen your relationship. After six months, you are officially in a relationship.

And then one day, you caught sight of him going down to the basement. The laundry room of course. You aren’t normally in your apartment at this time of day so naturally, you wouldn’t see him. But you were home, sick – did he know that? – so you saw him take a small hamper piled with clothes into the elevator.

You decided to take the stairs. It was an old building. You might even beat him down there.

It turns out you met each other at the bottom. Always in sync. He looked shocked to see you but that was natural: you aren’t normally home at this time of day and you definitely hadn’t told him. But he smiled because he’s happy to see you, and he even opened the door for you.

You helped him unload his laundry and leaned against the other machine as he turned it on. He’s so smooth and his arms are toned but not overly muscular – you don’t like that in a man, anyways. He’s perfect.

And then he opened his mouth.

He told you that he wasn’t interested in you anymore. Everything you worked so hard to develop – your relationship – was suddenly over with no warning. How could he do that?

Your head spun. You couldn’t focus. The buzzing in your ears was too strong.

You see red.

There’s something in your hand.

You were chopping carrots when you heard movement in the hallway and became curious.

You lunge.

His eyes go wide. Those beautiful blue eyes; wide in terror.

He stumbles back and you realize: it really is over.

It’s time to move on.

Clean up the mess made by another man walking out of your life and start again.

Your eyes clear and you breathe deeply, the smell of detergent and iron wafting through the air.

It’s time to leave this place.

Find another love.

You never did learn his name.