"White, Pamela - The Perfect Murder" - читать интересную книгу автора (White Pamela)

Of course, if I had taken this issue to my therapist she would have explained it as my need for mothering. That, logically, I was drawn to a woman exhibiting kindness and understanding of my pain, as a mother-figure would.

I never took it to my therapist, for I didn't want to analyze my love for this woman; my only desire was to experience it while keeping it hidden from Serena. It hadn't been more than three months after that first private talk that she showed up on my doorstep, sobbing, and bruised. Brock had been after her, for the last time, she swore. But she needed a place to stay, just for one night, until she could get to the bank the next morning.

She'd been my roommate ever since. I worked very hard not to show the depth of my feelings, to allow her the illusion that I took care of her because she was wounded and I was a good friend. I rationalized this deceit that I was merely her mother-figure just so I could keep her close.

Last night she had come to me as I sat on the couch reading yet another magazine article about how to melt the fat away juxtaposed with an article on the most decadent chocolate cakes ever. She laid her cool hand on my cheek and said, "I hate to ask this of you, you've been such a wonderful friend. I've never had such a friend. But I need your help desperately."

Her lawyer had said that Brock was hiding the deeds to their home, as well as to other property. I explained to her that deeds and such were public documents. He only had a copy; her lawyer would get all relevant information for her. For a minute I thought I'd overstepped my bounds as her eyes narrowed and a red angry spot appeared on each cheek. She sighed and said she had a confession to make.

"There are some letters in there too, I'd rather not talk about them, but if he uses them against me, and he will....why I'd end up with nothing. And don't you think I should be able to at least have some money to get started on my own?"

She was making sense to me; if my grandfather had been alive when I'd made the horrific realization that it wasn't my fault, I'd have wanted a payback too. I agreed to help her out.

She knew where they were, but because of all the bad memories, she was too fearful to go to the house to get them. But, she did know that Brock was out of town this week, and if I was willing to do this huge, enormous, lifesaving favor, well, then she'd draw me a map and give me a list of what she needed.

Still in the tub, in a near-drunken state I remembered the gun. Where? Had I left it on the floor, wrapped it in the plastic, kicked it under the table? And the muddy driveway - wouldn't my tires have left telltale tracks? And no matter what I did, wouldn't the police come after Serena?

As a murderess, I sucked.

It was self-defense, which no one would believe now. Why hadn't I just called the police from the house? Why had I been so afraid? Well, the gun, for one thing, although I had no notion of where that gun was now. The gun and Serena's witness of his violent behavior would certainly back up my claim of... Oh, it was too late for that now. I had killed a man, it would never look like self-defense. No decision would be made that night, or ever, to go to the police. It looked like I would be forced to forever hold my peace.

***

Sleep eventually came that night, helped along by a second gin-filled olive-enhanced water glass. The next morning, Serena was gone when I awoke to the first snowfall of the season. I went through the motions of preparing for work. Another forward step made as a result of therapy was a job change. I was never meant to be in the service industry, dealing with the public. My group had talked me into searching out more suitable, less stressful work.

Instead I found a job working alone in a cubicle, proofreading. My only contact with other employees was brief and minimal through out the day, as they would peek over my partial walls and inform me that such and so article was ready for my final reading. It was easy work, detailed and tedious, which kept me from thinking at all during the day. Thank God for that now.

Two days passed automatically. I passively allowed myself to continue as if nothing had happened that dusk in the cellar. Serena was sweet and loving, but I tried to avoid her, probably out of guilt, but some unacknowledged bit of information was knocking on my brain desperate to get in. All I knew was that it was something that I didn't want to know. I fought it off. An abusive childhood had given me the skill of compartmentalizing my emotions, my life. I shut the door on the murder, then I shut the door on whatever warning flare was firing.

Serena met me at the door on Wednesday night, breathless and oddly excited.

"Oooh," she gasped, "It's horrible. Robert called. Brock is gone."

So the news had finally broken. Robert was the partner who had received the ransom demand. How nice of him to tell Serena about her kidnapped husband.

"It's horrible news, Kelly. The absolutely most frightening thing is - the police think it was an inside job. His murder, I mean."

Murder? That was fast work on their part. I swallowed hard. At least it was easy to act upset and frightened. My hands were back to their old quaking selves. Geez, who was acting?

"How? When? The police?"

"Kelly, they think it was the night you were supposed to get the safe, and you know, my clothes! I'm so glad you didn't go. In fact, I think we should just not mention that at all." Her expression changed nearly imperceptibly as she said this; her eyes narrowed. "I'm afraid they will suspect me - you know, motive and all. I am the estranged wife, we have a history of fighting and of course, I get it all: money, house, insurance. It's ridiculous really, but there you have it. Brock's dead. I'm sure they'll think it was me."

"No, they won't. They won't, they can't. You're absolutely right, we won't tell them I planned to be there that night. Won't say I was to get the safe." I paused, grateful that she had introduced the topic, indebted that she wished no mention made of our plan. "Have you seen, well, have the police been here?"

"Well, Robert called to let me know, and then the police called and asked me to come in for, you know, questioning. Will you come with me?"

"Oh, I think ...well, don't you think ....a lawyer. Much better. Take a lawyer, just in case."