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“It’s dead.”
“Figures. Charge it in the office. I’ll want to see it after dinner.”
I nod, and then I start toward the office.
“Oh,” he calls, halting me in my tracks. “And grab a bottle of wine from the cellar while you’re at it, would ya? I’m thinking a red will do.”
“Sean!” I yell from the cellar. He doesn’t answer, and he doesn’t come, not right away. “I’m not seeing…”
“What is it?” he asks as he descends the stairs. He’s so slow; it feels like an eternity.
“I’m not seeing the cabaret.”
I watch as he fumbles around, pulling several bottles from the shelf before placing them back. “This should do,” he says finally. He takes the bottle and holds it in front of his face to better see the label.
“I don’t know how I missed it.”
When he turns toward me, I take his prized letter opener and jab it in his neck.
He stumbles forward once, twice, three times, before falling completely. He’s on his stomach, and I have to step over him. I pull on the letter opener, but it doesn’t budge. I tug harder, but it’s tough to get out, tougher than I thought, like it’s caught on something, something like bone, although I know that can’t be the case. I angle it, and with another tug, I’m staring at the shiny metal in my hand. But then I panic at the sight of all the blood, and I stab him again. His eyes bulge, and he’s aware of what’s happening, and that makes it all the better.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Elliot
When there’s a knock on the door, I’m hoping it’s Emily. I haven’t heard from Vanessa, and I’ve been fighting the urge to text for an appointment all day. But mostly, I’ve had other things on my mind. Surely, Emily has seen the posts on Instalook, and she is pissed that I have moved on. My wife was never the kind of woman to share. Not the spotlight. Not even our daughter, as it turns out.
I open the door to find my mother’s face staring back at me. She pushes past me, which is probably better. No point in airing our dirty laundry for the neighbors. Never
one to waste a minute, she says. “Elliot, good God,” she says. “Where have you been? I’ve been trying to get a hold of you for three days.”
“I’ve been busy. Swamped.”
“Clearly.” My mother’s aged since the last time I saw her—years in days it seems—and if she weren’t such a wretched person, I might feel bad. “Now, I need to know what you were thinking, going there?”
She follows me from the foyer to the living area. “What brings you by, Mother?”
“You went to jail. What do you think brings me by?”
“A phone call would have been sufficient.”
“Tell me about it,” she says and so I do.
“It was nothing. Just a common misunderstanding.”
“Please explain how one can misunderstand a trespassing charge?”
“It’s my house.”
“Your obsession is going to cost you your future, Elliot. And for what?”
“They are my future, mother.”
“No, Elliot. They aren’t. I thought this had been made clear.”
Her eyes scan the room. “Where’s the sofa?”
“I spilled something.”
