Page 62 of I'm Not Done with You Yet

My neighbors? A flash of Kimiko, seeing me angry at Ted over his remark about me being untidy. I could kill Kimiko.

I flinch at the thought and look at Detective Howe guiltily, as though she could read my mind. I’m losing it. I need to get out of here.

“Am I under arrest?” I ask thickly.

“No. We’re just talking, hoping to get more answers.”

“I’m done talking.” I’m done being helpful Jane. I’m done being anything. I’m buzzing with fear, I don’t know what I’m doing, but I know I need to not be here anymore.

Detective Howe frowns. “Jane, I really advise you to—”

I jump out of my chair, out of breath, everything inside me screaming at me to run, and I just about manage to spit out, “Next time you want to speak to me, go through my lawyer.”

28

Thalia

How the hell did I get outplayed by Ani of all people, for god’s sake? As Mama and Papa land at a private airport in New Jersey, I pace about in my bedroom, going through all of the steps that led to Ivan’s death. Ani has something to do with it, of that I am sure. And once I realize it, I could kick myself for missing it. All those years, living under the same roof with her and Ivan. The way she would sometimes watch him as he did the most mundane things—eating, swimming, watching TV. The way she often came with us to doctor appointments under the guise of being a caring sister. How she would often make a snarky remark about how everything is being passed down to Ivan purely on the basis of him being born a boy. The way Mama and Papa ignored her, tuning her out at mealtimes as though she weren’t there. I never thought much of it, because obviously, Ani is unbearable. I can’t blame Mama and Papa for ignoring her; it’s probably the only way you can keep your sanity with a daughter like her around.

I’d just dismissed her as an insignificant little brat with the maturity of a five-year-old. But now, too late, I realize that this persona of hers—the flighty, party animal Ani—is a carefully curated one. I’d sometimes wondered why she bothered to do certain things—shop for branded bags and shoes, for example, when she couldn’t be bothered to even wear them. Now I see them for what they truly are—a facade. The real her is far more calculating and horrifyingly more intelligent. I recall now how I once walked in on her at the office, on one of my visits there to sabotage Ivan. She’d been looking through his ledgers, and when I walked in, she’d looked up with a guilty flush. I’d thought she was just guilty because she was caught snooping, but now I see that it was something more sinister. She’d been planning.

I go back even further. To our Oxford days. How she portrayed this image of a party girl, but underneath that, she was always studying, always making connections with people she found useful. Forging business relationships, I realize. All this while, she’d been preparing herself for the eventuality of Ivan’s death, so she could take over. And she’d developed this dumb fashionista persona so no one would even think of suspecting. Not even me. Fuck, I was so stupid.

Okay, enough of the self-hatred. This is what most people don’t realize: self-hatred is indulgent. I know how contradictory it sounds, but trust me, hating yourself is not the opposite of narcissism. In fact, it’s just another facet of it, because at the end of the day, the attention is still placed on you.

Sorry for the derail. I’m just a bit thrown off by the complexity of it all. I’m not used to feeling self-hatred. I hope I don’t get used to it, because quite honestly? I’m pretty fucking amazing. And I hate Ani even more for making me feel even an ounce of self-hatred.

Okay. Think. Ivan (RIP) died of a heart attack. Did Ani trigger a heart attack somehow? Why not, right? It’s the most obvious way of killing him. So how would she have done it? I pace faster around the room, gnawing at my fingernails. In my eagerness to figure it out, I almost Google “how to trigger a heart attack” but manage to stop myself in time. Shit. I must remember that the stakes are different now. I can’t just Google whatever I want.

Fortunately, I always have a couple of burner phones with me. Perks of being rich: your burner phones are iPhones. I take out one of them now, log on to a VPN because I’m always careful, always putting as many layers between me and the truth as possible. Then I look it up.

Okay, so basically everything can lead to a heart attack. Amphetamines. Cocaine. Mercury. Too much alcohol. And of course, caffeine.

That tells me nothing. Except...

Ani was so fucking eager for an autopsy to be done. Which means whatever the results of the autopsy, it would be in her favor. What does that mean?

Cold dread spreads through my limbs as I make another realization. In case of Ivan’s death, his wealth would go to the next of kin, which would be me, his wife. Which means that Ani doesn’t just need to get rid of Ivan in order to get control over the family company. She also needs to get rid of me.

Shit, shit!I take in a sharp breath and force myself to calm down. I’m usually so good at being calm. But having all those years of meticulous planning and sacrifice go down the drain like this is infuriating. Not to mention the fact that I might actually end up going to prison for a crime I haven’t had the chance to commit. How’s that for irony? I hate irony.

Okay, so to frame me, Ani would have to—

What? What would she have done? I close my eyes, try to put myself in her shoes. How would she have done it? Once more, I go back to the previous months, the previous year, and this time, I think of Ani, sitting at the sidelines, watching me carefully as I went about my day. Watching me prepare Ivan’s kale smoothies in the morning. I’d been so careful. I’d mixed some caffeine powder in with his protein supplements, so that in the mornings, I could simply add in the protein supplement in front of everyone without causing any suspicion. Or so I thought.

Now I see myself through Ani’s eyes, and god, I was so smug I could smack myself. I see the way she watched me, and then she would’ve watched Ivan as he drank the smoothie. The way he became jittery, hyper. Each smoothie would’ve contained the equivalent of ten cups of coffee. Ani would’ve seen that. She would’ve made a note of it, his strange behavior, my behavior.

What else?

She would’ve kept watching. Maybe even kept a journal of Ivan’s moods. It wouldn’t have taken her long at all to figure out that there was a correlation between the days where I put in protein supplement powder and his jitters. His heart palpitations.

Ani, for fuck’s sake. Of all people.

But just because she knows I was poisoning him doesn’t mean she figured out what it was I was using. I could’ve been dosing him with cocaine, or a million other drugs. Not that it would make me any more innocent, but if she doesn’t know, then she might not have used caffeine to kill him off.

My reverie is interrupted by the arrival of Mama and Papa. I hear them through even the thick bedroom walls, they’re sofucking loud. They barge into the penthouse crying and wailing, and I hear Ani wailing back at them out in the living room. I can picture them now, clutching one another, finally acknowledging Ani’s existence now that their son is dead. Belatedly, I realize I’ve made a mistake. I should’ve been waiting out there for them, should’ve been ready to play the role of dutiful daughter-in-law. Shit. Once again, I’ve been outplayed.

Too late to salvage that now, so I do the only thing I can think of. I quickly make my way to the darkest corner of the bedroom and crouch there. I run my fingers through my hair, messing it up. Then I start to sob. Minutes later, there’s a knock on the door and I manage a teary “Yes?” Mama comes in and sees me, and I see the flash of satisfaction crossing her face at my disheveled state. I’m mourning her son the way I should, with all my being. I quickly cross the room and rush at her, flinging myself at her like she’s a life raft. “Mama!” I cry, burying my face in her shoulder and letting loose another violent round of tears. I need her to think that Ivan’s death has broken me, that I am nothing without her insipid son. Her shoulders shake with sobs, and gingerly, she pats me on the back.

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