Chapter 2

Kiki Lowe

I was preparing dinner for my husband, or trying, but then the rice overcooked, foam rose and bubbled over, seeping out to dry halfway down the metal pot. The steak took on a charcoal color,  filling the house with the odor of burnt meat. I stood over the mess, rigid and cold, then I cried. I couldn’t focus on anything at all, I felt scared for what I’d done, scared and near-crazy from all that anticipation. That Tuesday morning I had woken up excited, I  had scrubbed last night’s plates and did the laundry -- something I only do on Thursday. But really I was waiting for some call from the police, telling me that my husband had been taken into custody. The anticipation of it all dawned on me, it couldn’t happen fast enough. Three days passed, my mind was restless, how long does it take to find someone’s piss on a dead body? I thought. I began to doubt myself, my hunch needed to be confirmed. So I  looked it up on the google engine. It said that piss may contain DNA, however it isn’t the case all the time. Basically, if they’re not looking for it, they might not even have noticed it. It reminded me that my husband thinks I’m uneducated. I didn’t cry because the piss wouldn’t get him arrested, but for thinking that it could. I had been so thrilled, I had risked everything going out there and now the internet told me that what I had done was pointless. I imagined how much he’d laugh if he found out, he’d call me a dumb b***h and he’d mock my intelligence like he’s done before. That’s what made me cry this afternoon. A second phase took over me when the crying seized: wild uncontrollable anger. Anger so ferocious that I felt it alter my brain chemistry, my rationale and integrity withered as the wild fire in me ravished every part of the woman I thought I was. I wanted him gone, more than ever, so he would never make me feel guilty or worthless ever again. And this was the perfect opportunity, it’d knocked on my front door. I was to convince Mrs.Morelli that my husband murdered hers.

I sat in my usual spot, dark negative energy radiating around me. I brooded there in the sunny living room with two blocks of sunshine plastered on the wooden flooring, April’s heat slowly gaining strength. The ideas came and went, fleetingly. None of them felt substantial, they were like useless suggestions thrown out at a brainstorming session. Nothing good came from it. I just couldn’t settle on how to make Mrs. Morelli suspicious of Kevin. The perfect lie felt so near, tipping on the edge of my tongue, but wouldn’t fall. I needed it to be good, convincing and in line with Kevin’s character. I decided to ease the nerves by calling Michael, speaking to him always calmed me down. I pressed on the little green button, and soon I knew I would hear the all-too-familiar voice of the automated voice on the other end.

‘The number you are trying to reach is no longer available.’ She says in that hollow fashion. Silence ensued. I could speak then.
‘Hey Mikey -- hope you’re doing well. I miss you so much -- everyday I -- I think about you and you’re always in my heart baby. I know you saw what I did. Please don’t think I’m stupid " I just need this -- its my way out Michael. What do you think I should do? -  You see how he treats me.' My voice catches, I blink the moisture from my eyes and pause to regain control over the tears worming their way out. ‘Baby never mind. Don’t worry about any of it. Its all under control, ill find a way. I dreamt of you. You were wearing your graduation gown and I -God- you’re in my heart Mickey, I love you.’
I cut. I breathe. I draw in my lower lip. As I do the roar of a powerful engine kicks silence out of place, I tear through the main door just as Mrs.Morelli’s car swerves into their garage. They’re home. Janet steps out, it feels as though I haven’t seen her in years, she paces towards the door in a haste, her red hair flows in the wind. I’m going to give them a pie I had made for myself, go over there to share my condolences, but most importantly, make my husband a killer.

Janet Morelli

Dad threw away pies in the trashcan, only a few days before his murder. Last Wednesday was an apple, then on Thursday it was another apple pie, and a strawberry pie on Friday. It was dumped in there, split in half amongst broken egg shells, used kleenex and onion peels. Mom and Dad mustn’t have been getting along, because if he wouldn’t eat her pies, it means he didn’t trust her, or was afraid to trust her. As I look at her driving I envision the ways in which she could have ended Dad’s life. The meticulousness in which she planned out the murder: sleek black leather gloves, wait-for-Janet-to-be-at-school, make-sure-he-thinks-I’m-gone. I’m sure that as the cook’s knife perforated his skin she relished the sensation and thrill that must come with taking a life. Why am I thinking about my mother killing my father. F**k. I’m holding on to sanity by a thin thread, and these poisonous thoughts aren’t making things better. In any case I won’t blame anyone for the way life is going. I’m still in control, for the most part. Tonight Mom won’t be home. I’ll get high out of my mind and travel beyond the stratosphere without ever leaving my room, I’ll swim in strange unexplored spaces and become one with the universe. Maybe if I reach the ultimate state of consciousness, I’ll be able to speak to Dad, and he’ll tell me who murdered him. Earlier I purchased two grams of big buddha cheese from Jason at school, managed to get a senior to buy me cheap Russian vodka, (I had to let him touch me behind the school cafeteria)  and I’ve got four packs of Marlboro cigs. Mom came to pick me up at three. Her lips were colored dark red, her hair done in a perfect bun, big round dark shades veiled her eyes. She ranted about my blue headband right away, ‘that thing literally hides your entire forehead. Are you self conscious about your forehead baby?’ She asked. Then she cursed her workload and the conference she’s got to attend tonight. Never once did she mention Dad, and again I imagined.

We’re home. I storm up the spiraling staircase, trade my accordion skirt for the comfort of sweatpants, lock my door, and get to work. Rolling a joint is the most delicate process, the paper might as well be a soap bubble; it’s difficult to handle, like working with glass. You need the right hands, Michael had the right hands. I retrieve the ziplock bag containing a clump of big buddha cheese, the smell hits me right away once I take a sniff, it tickles my senses and I feel my muscles unnerving. I’m charged. Tonight will be good. I stuff some of the buddha cheese in my grinder and just then a knock beats against the door. The handle plunges down with a squeak and swings back.
‘Janet? Why is your door locked?’ the voice roars, I’ve no time to hide everything on my table, I blanket the whole operation with my sweater.
‘What do you want?’ I push the door open. Mom’s eyes travel past my shoulder, focusing on a sight behind me. I snap my fingers and she recoils almost, fright plays across her face for the fraction of a second.
‘What are you doing? Why is your door locked?’
‘Cause.’
Our eyes lock like two magnets, I wish I could see the things she’s seen, the secrets withheld. But no, all there is an ice cold stare glutted with suspicion.
‘The neighbor is here. Come down and say hello now.’ she speaks with some razor-edged sharpness, she’s irritated. The neighbor? I think to myself, Right, of course the neighbors have to come visit and tell us how sorry they are.

I trail behind and make my way down the staircase and through the living room. Where Dad was murdered. The blue reclining chair -- his only input to the furnishing of our home -- is gone. Now mom’s yellow chesterfields rule, the white fluffy carpet and the artsy  glass framed posters are now all in accordance, it’s as though Dad was never here.  A  black woman is sat on the sofa that’s now replaced Dad’s seater, clutching on to her arm. I’m struck by something I can’t explain: it’s the curls in her unyielding inky hair, her large eyes that make her constantly look startled, the pink cupid bow lips. Sadness swallows me. 'Hello, Janet.’ She approaches reluctantly, then closes her arms around me. I let her and shut my eyes, her hair has the odor of apple.
‘I’m so sorry for your loss Janet. How are you holding up?’ I find a seat on the sofa across from her. Mom slumps next to me, legs crossed, head veered towards the large french doors with the view of our back garden.
‘Well, still adjusting.’
‘I bet. Well, I bought an apple pie if you’re hungry.’
‘An apple pie?’ Her eyebrows twitch, I sense mother adjusting her posture, drawing in a deep breath.
‘Yes. Do you not like them?’
‘No -- I --they’re fine. I do.’
‘Well thank you Mrs. Lowe for coming here. And for sharing everything you shared with me. It was very -- insightful.’
Mom stands up and extends her arm towards Mrs.Lowe, the whole thing makes me tense, I’m nervous all over again, for no traceable reason.
‘Is there anything I can do? I know times must be hard.’ Mom sucks in some air again in the way that impatient people do, hands resting her hips. ‘No, no don’t you worry about it. Thank you for coming.’
Mrs.Lowe stands up too now, eyes bolting from Mom to I. ‘You talked about going to a conference tonight? ’ She turns to me and I hold her stare. Mrs.Lowe freezes, mouth half open in a gasp.
Uncertainty?
‘Maybe, maybe I could look after her? Until you come back? She shouldn't be alone at a time like this. That isn’t good for a child.'
I’m about to contest when mom cuts through, ‘oh come on-' she blurts out. Silence falls, like a dead autumn leaf plummeting to the ground. Mom nurses her forehead and clears her throat. ’I mean, she’s fifteen. She’s -' her voice trails off,  observing Mrs.Lowe, observing me. Mrs.Lowe’s face is pleading, begging with a burning fire; but so is mine, and more intensely.
‘Eh - I guess you’re right. You never know. I’ll be back around 11, is that ok?’
‘Great!’ wheezes out of Mrs.Lowe. The air is kicked out of me, I run a hand through my hair feeling anger climbing up my spine. But strangely enough I’m not angry at Mrs.Lowe. I don’t think I can be angry at her. 'Alright.’ Mother avoids fixing me, ‘you two have a great evening.’

Author's Note

Feel free to leave reviews! always up for feedback :D

Reviews

[Susan 🦋]

Hmmmm the wife? :-) much easier read! Only suggestion...a smoother transition from Kiki to Janet...I got lost there for a minute....chapter 3 soon?? :-)

[KFA]

Thank you! Taking in all the suggestions. Glad you're having suspicions aha. Chapter 3 is up! :) x