Page 53 of I'm Not Done with You Yet

Prompt 1: One of our own, a gifted writer, a dear friend, a loving husband, has been found dead at the bottom of a nearby cliff. The police are still investigating. Was it an accident or something more sinister?

One hundred percent of the people here would go for “something sinister,” because that makes for a better story.

Prompt 2: If it was indeed “something sinister,” who did it? Perhaps a vagrant who somehow stumbled upon Kurt while he was out on his nightly wanderings, pondering his work in progress? Or was it (dun dun dun!) someone he knew?

Again, one hundred percent of writers here would pick the latter, because of course that makes for the better story. And they would be right. It was someone he knew (c’est moi!) and it was no accident. I just have to do a bit of redirecting so that their attention will stay far, far away from me. Not that anyone would suspect me; for all they know, Kurt and I were just friends. We were discreet about our affair, both of us being happily married and all, but I don’t like taking my chances. I’ve been so careful about this whole setup. I paid attention to all the little details,down to things like changing our dinner order to the restaurant’s lightest menu, ensuring that there isn’t a single carb in the meal so that nobody has a chance to sober up. The whole damn day, I went around refilling everyone’s glass so that by the time we retired for the night, everyone would be drunk out of their minds. Layers and layers of preparation, that’s me. I almost giggled out loud this morning, listening to the police interviews around me. The useless answers everyone gave. “I didn’t hear anything. I was passed out...” “We drank way too much. I can’t remember what happened last night...”

If only they gave out awards for attention to detail. I should have been a wedding planner, or a neurosurgeon, or a war strategist.

“Do you think Jane...” Siobhan says to me in a stage whisper loud enough for everyone else in the living room to hear. The way she let the rest of the sentence trail off, letting everyone fill in the rest themselves, is really quite brilliant. Siobhan is probably the most masterful storyteller out of this bunch, a living example of Show, Don’t Tell. I could’ve stood up and applauded her right then and there.

“Oh, it’s too awful to think about!” I cry, burying my face in my hands.

And now here comes Rebecca with her alcohol breath, wrapping her limp arms around me like an octopus. “Oh, you poor thing. It must be terrifying. To think, your stalker might’ve killed Kurt.” Rebecca is not a believer of Show, Don’t Tell.

“But why would she have done that though?” Thomas says. He swills the brandy in his glass and frowns. He probably thinks he looks very thoughtful.

“Who knows why crazy people do anything?” Rebecca snaps.

“I don’t think you should use ‘crazy’ in that way,” Alicia says.Alicia is a YA writer and very much involved in the woke YA sphere. I hate Alicia.

“Yeah, don’t wanna be canceled,” someone snarks. A couple others snort-laugh their agreement.

Being canceled is always at the edge of our minds, always a gnawing fear.

“My guess is,” Rebecca says, raising her voice, “it’s because Jane was obsessed with Thalia, and she saw how close Thalia was to him.”

I stiffen under her embrace, because excuse me? I wasn’t close to Kurt. I mean, I was, but no one else was supposed to know it. We were always formal when we texted or emailed each other, leaving the raunchy stuff for the phone calls. I sneak a glance at Rebecca, trying to get a gauge on her. Does she know something? Is she trying to needle me? And then a chilling thought: What if Kurt had told her something?

Oh god, of course he fucking did. He must’ve been so proud of it, secretly. Maybe he got drunk one night and spilled it all over DMs.

How much does Rebecca know? The bitch, all this time I thought she was just trying to lap up extra attention, but maybe she’s putting down the pieces needed to make a move against me after all. She’s never liked me; I know it. Ugly women rarely do.

“I don’t think so,” I say in a small, shaky voice. “I wasn’t that close to Kurt. I mean, I’m closer to you than I was to him, Rebecca.” Ingratiating myself to this bitch, ugh.

Rebecca gives me a small smile, smug to have been acknowledged as a better friend than poor dead Kurt.

“Oh, I think we all know that Kurt had a little crush on you, Thalia,” Thomas says with a smirk.

I’m about to deny this when it hits me that it’s fine by me ifthey want to think that Kurt had a crush on me. After all, who could blame him? I take care of myself. And it would probably add to my allure without soiling my reputation, to know that he’d been lusting over me.

“I’m sure he didn’t,” I say demurely. “He loved his wife very much, I’ve heard.” (The ungrateful bitch, he’d called her.)

“I’m not saying he would’ve cheated on his wife. I think it was just a harmless crush. But maybe Jane noticed him looking at you and it made her angry,” Thomas said.

Good dog.

I let out a small sob. How terrible to think that me being a beauty has unwittingly led a man to his death. Very Greek tragedy. I approve.

“It’s not your fault,” Siobhan says. I hate her the least out of everyone here, have I mentioned that? She is the best dog.

Someone else snorts. It’s Monday (yes, her parents really did name her that). “I don’t think it’s useful to sit here and make up stories about what might’ve happened.” Not useful to make up stories? It’s like she’s not even bothering to pretend to be a writer. “I mean, the cops said it might’ve been an accident. And this is real life, not a novel. In real life, the simplest answer is usually the truth. Kurt was drunk and decided to wander outside—he probably thought it was romantic and deep; sorry not sorry, but Kurt was the kind of guy who’d totally do that—and he fell off by accident.” Guess what genre Monday writes. Guess! Yeah, you’re right, she sells self-help books. Her latest book was titled:Zero Drama Mama! How to get rid of all the drama and #LiveYourBestLife. (Yes, with the “!” and the “#.” The book has been on theNew York Timeslist for twenty-three weeks. I should’ve killed her instead.)

Despite myself, I kind of have to agree with Monday. Kurtwas very definitely the kind of idiot who’d go for a night walk on a cliffside while drunk. Case in point: It didn’t even occur to him to say no when I suggested it. I think he was expecting some kind of al fresco drunk sex thing, as though any woman thinks getting fucked in the wilderness while branches stab at your skin and mosquitoes feast on your blood is sexy.

“Yeah,” I say in a wobbly but brave voice, “I think you’re right, Monday.” Monday simpers. Why is she so repulsive and why does she have 1.2 million followers on Insta? “I mean, Jane is—there’s something off about her for sure—but it might have just been an accident.” See? Not a monster. Iamtrying to pin Kurt’s death on his own idiocy. Jane is just a fail-safe.

I take a deep breath. I’ve mastered the art of the Heroic Inhale. Mine lasts for a full second and is done with eyes closed and a resigned look on my face. It’s supposed to convey: I hate to do this, but I will because I am a trooper. “I’m going back to the city. I can’t stay in this house, knowing what happened.”

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