Page 54 of I'm Not Done with You Yet

“Oh, honey, I don’t know—you drove here, right? You’d be driving in the dark,” Rebecca says. What is her obsession with me? Never mind Jane; I should’ve told everyone Rebecca’s my stalker.

“No, it’s fine. I’m fine,” I say in the I’m-not-really-fine-but-I-will-be-because-I’m-so-brave voice. “I just can’t stay here any longer. How can you all stomach it? The thought of Kurt—” I finish the sentence in a sob.

Everyone shifts uncomfortably. That’s right, assholes, I am purposefully trying to make you uncomfortable about staying here. I want everyone to disperse like ants. Only about half of this crowd lives in New York; the rest are strewn all over the country. If I can get the group to break up, it’ll make it just thatlittle bit harder for the cops to ask follow-up questions in case they have any.

“Yeah, I’m gonna head back too,” Monday says. “Too much drama here for my mental health.”

“Would anyone like to hitch a ride back to the city?” I ask. Ugh, I hope none of them takes me up on the offer. But whatever it takes to get them the hell out of here.

“Sure,” Rebecca says.

The things I do to get away with murder.

After that, everyone else does decide to leave Montauk (phew). If not for Rebecca and her revolting breath stinking up my car, I would’ve breathed a huge sigh of relief as I drove away from the house. But like beggars, murderers can’t be choosers. I put up with her yammering the entire drive back to Manhattan about her latest WIP and how wonderful her agent thinks she is (“I’m her star client, she tells me every day!”) and how useless her publicist is (“Couldn’t even get me a cover reveal on EW, what the hell? It’s like, you have one job, Mikayla!”).

Finally, we’re back in the city and I can make up an excuse to drop her off at the nearest subway station. I grin all the way back to my penthouse apartment. I did it! They were right when they said that hard work pays off! So many obstacles in my climb to the top—my useless mother, Antoine, Kurt—but I’ve done it. I am now a bona fideNew York Timesbestselling author with a magnificent agent and a glittering career ahead of me. My plan isn’t done yet; there are still a couple of steps ahead of me to secure the life I deserve, but the hardest part—killing Kurt—is over. Tomorrow, Ivan and I will go back to Indonesia, where the rest of my plan can unfold in as effortless a way as possible.

Shall I tell you the rest of my plan? No, I shall leave it as asurprise. I hate surprises, but I do love springing them on people, because my surprises are actually good ones.

After handing the car key to the valet, I practically dance my way to the private elevator. Inside, I tap my foot impatiently as I watch the numbers go up. I am so jubilant, so incandescent with victory, that when the doors slide open and I spot Ani at the picture window overlooking Central Park, I don’t get the stab of annoyance that I usually do when I see her. Then she turns around and my interest is piqued, because her expression is an awful mix of everything—fear, alarm, sorrow. Ooh, maybe her mother is dead. Or her father? Or better yet, both.

“Ani, what is it?” I say in a concerned voice as I step out of the elevator.

“Where have you been? I’ve been calling you nonstop.”

I’d turned my phone off because one must focus when killing a man. “Oh, sorry, I must’ve turned my phone off. What is it?”

“It’s Ivan,” she says, her voice catching. Tears well up in her eyes. “He had a heart attack. I don’t know if he’s going to make it.”

And with that, she pitches herself at me and bursts into tears as I stand there, stunned to silence. Because, oh, irony of ironies, I might have gotten away with Kurt’s murder, but I think I’m about to go down for my husband’s.

25

Jane

If someone had told me just a day ago that I would be genuinely glad for Ted’s company, I would’ve cackled out loud. But here I am, ever so grateful that my husband ignored me and made his own decision to remain in Manhattan. He’s borrowed money from his parents to help pay to extend our stay, telling them it’s for our upcoming five-year anniversary. Normally, I would’ve balked at that, tying myself up into knots about being indebted to them. But I can’t afford to tie myself into any more knots right now. I’m out of string; every available length is well and truly tangled up. I’m barely coherent as Ted gently pries what happened in Montauk out of me. When I’m finally out of words, he leans back on the sofa with a huge sigh.

“Jesus, Jane. That’s massively fucked-up.”

I stiffen, readying myself for him to blame me somehow. Maybe he’ll tell me that I’m just being too sensitive, that I imagined all of those accusatory glares and questions. Or maybe he’ll tell me that I shouldn’t have gone, remind me that he tried tokeep me here, that he knew all along that going to a retreat with a group of strangers wasn’t the best idea.

“And the cops haven’t said either way? If it was an accident or...”

I shake my head. Here it comes.I told you, Jane, you shouldn’t have gone, you should’ve listened to me, you should’ve...

“Shit. I’m sorry this happened to you.”

I brace myself, but he doesn’t say anything else. Wait. That’s it? That can’t be it. This is my husband we’re talking about. He never lets an opportunity to prove me wrong go. “You can just say it,” I mutter.

“Say what?” He frowns at me.

“I told you so, I told you not to go there,” I say, mimicking his voice.

The creases on his face deepen. “Why would I say that? You’ve obviously been through a lot of shit.”

I stare at him, and it’s like I’m seeing him in a new light. Part of me wants to fight, to prod him into arguing with me because that’s all I know to do in these situations. But the other part of me is just exhausted. “Never mind.”

“No, I think we should talk about that, because—” Ted takes a deep breath. “For a while now, I feel like you take everything I say in the worst possible way, and I don’t think that’s healthy for either of us.”

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