Page 54 of What Happened Last Night

I was almost to the end of my statement now, which meant the worst bit was still to come. The bit where I explained how William had pushed Candy. How she had stumbled backward and crashed through the window. And how William and I had shared a look of utter horror for a moment. I would have to include what came next, too. The part where a still-drunk William had lain on the bed, saying he needed a moment, and passed back out pretty much as soon as his head hit the pillow. The part where I didn’t call nine-one-one but instead got back into bed beside William, knowing he wouldn’t remember any of this tomorrow, and telling myself I wouldn’t, either. And if I did, I would lie through my teeth, saying I didn’t remember a thing.

There was no way I could word this in a way that made me come out of this thing looking good but panicking and covering up for someone were surely better than murdering someone. That was the hope I clung to. I was a terrible person. I had done a terrible thing, but I was no killer.

I sighed. A long, drawn-out sigh of resignation. William had made the bed for us both, and now we both had to lie in it, surrounded by the fallout of our own shit.

I forced myself to clear my mind and focus only on the statement. I stopped tapping the pen against the chest of drawers, which I was using as a makeshift desk, and went back to scribbling furiously. As much as this part was painful to write, that pain didn’t slow me down. In fact, the words poured from me easily, and I thought maybe this was kind of like therapy in some ways, getting it all out of me. All of the pent-up hurt and anger, and at the heart of it, the truth.

I had barely gotten started on the part about how the story really ended when I heard William coming up the stairs. I quickly gathered my papers together and pushed them into my bottom drawer, fanning a few scarves out to cover them just in case he happened to go into the drawer for something before I had a chance to move the sheets of paper. I dropped the pen in the drawer too and pushed it shut.

William’s tread didn’t sound like he was stumbling around, and I figured he must be at least reasonably sober at this point. By the time he burst into our bedroom, I was totally composed, sitting in place on the stool and applying my lipstick in the mirror.

My composure didn’t last long. William might not have been falling about drunk, but it quickly became clear to me that he was in a rage about something or other. I opened my mouth to ask him what was going on, but before I even formed the words, William grabbed me by the top of my arm, dragging me from the stool.

“What the fuck?” I demanded, snatching my arm away from his hand and rubbing it with my other hand. Red marks had sprung up all over my arm, ugly red fingerprints where William had gripped me so tightly.

“Downstairs, now,” William said. “We need to talk, and we need to do it right fucking now.”

His voice came out low and level, cold and calm, although I could hear the anger beneath the calmness. If he was yelling and shouting, I would have known how to handle him, but this was different, and for the first time, I felt icy fingers of fear caressing the back of my neck as I looked at my husband, his face twisted in anger, and I realized that I didn’t really know him at all.

All I knew in that moment was that angering him further would have been a bad idea. I glared at William, not wanting him to know that he was scaring me—he’d love that—but I did as he said, giving him a wide berth as I moved around him and headed down the stairs.

William followed close behind me, and when I reached the lounge door, he gave me a hard shove, pushing me into the room. I was starting to feel angry as well as afraid now. How dare he push me about like this? Who the fuck did he think he was? What the hell was I even supposed to have done to him to get him this worked up? It’s not like he could know about the statement I was writing, and I certainly hadn’t done anything else to warrant this level of anger from him.

I whirled around, ready to give William a piece of my mind, but the sight of the icy cold fury in his eyes caused my words of anger to dry up in my mouth and I found myself backing away from William instead of confronting him.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

William

Ihave never felt anger like this in all of my life. I don’t know whether I’m angrier at Carlotta for working against me with the police or that she is so fucking brazen about it, working against me with Detective Del-Fucking-Super-Rey and then coming home to me like she hasn’t done anything wrong. And having the sheer fucking cheek to act like she was the wronged party because I didn’t rush down to the precinct to secure her release. I was really glad I hadn’t now.

“How could you?” I said, my voice shaking with anger.

“How could I what?” Carlotta asked.

Her seeming oblivion to the situation only made me angrier. How dare she stand there looking at me like I was crazy, like she had no idea what I’m talking about?

“How could you work with the police behind my back?” I shouted.

“How ... how did you know about that?” Carlotta asked quietly.

I saw a flicker of fear pass over her face and the anger inside me reached a level I didn’t even know was possible. She had only herself to blame for my temper now. She had brought this on herself when she had made the decision to betray me.

My feet seemed to move without my telling them to, and my arms seemed to come up of their own accord. Without consciously knowing I was going to do it, I found myself gripping Carlotta by her upper arms, shaking her roughly.

“Is that all you’ve got to say for yourself? You’re not even going to try and deny it?” I snapped.

The fear in Carlotta’s eyes flickered out and she looked angry herself now. Somehow, her anger was more palatable than her fear, and I felt myself calming down a little bit. Her fear of me made it seem like I was some kind of monster, and I wasn’t, so of course that made me angry.

She shoved my hands roughly off her arms, drawing herself up, trying to make herself look taller and intimidating.

“No, I’m not going to try and deny it,” she snapped. “You went to the detective first, remember?”

“I said a few things that raised his suspicions a little and took the heat off me for a while,” I shot back. “I didn’t come right out and say you were a fucking killer.”

“And I didn’t say that about you, either,” Carlotta shouted.

“You didn’t?” I said with a frown.

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