Page 4 of One of Us Is Guilty

Her nightstand just had a radio clock on top, and in the single drawer were her contraceptive pills and a bottle of Tylenol. Her phone charger and laptop charger hung from the wall plugs.

There was no personality in this bedroom. No knick-knacks. No photographs. Nothing personal to her life.

He got dressed, listening to the ceiling fan. The constant beat sounded like a clock. A countdown to something.

In the kitchen, he continued to open drawers. Nothing unusual.

Geoff, his campaign manager, probably hired her because she could read and spell, and Geoff wanted to sleep with her. Maybe he should have had her vetted. Patrick wasn’t that interested in politics, really. His father had hired Geoff, and funneled money and donors to him, but Patrick knew none of it was really for his benefit. It was all for his father’s vision of his son.

In the living space, there was a TV and a couch, and a bookshelf filled with paperbacks, their spines hidden so that only a shelf full of yellow and white paper edges faced into the room.What a stupid filing system, thought Patrick. How could you know what books you had, what you wanted to read or even find a book that you knew you already owned? It was for decoration’s sake, and nothing else.

He began to pull the books off the shelf, one by one, checking their covers.

He stopped.

The noise from the plumbing was beginning its death spiral. The water had been shut off. He could hear the drip from the shower head leaking into the tub.

He looked at the book in his hand.

It wasn’t a novel.

It was a journal.

As he opened the journal, he noticed a gym bag tucked behind the bookcase. It was black with a white Nike swoosh on the side.

He began to read the first entry, his heartbeat rising in time with every line he read.

The pages of the journal creased as he gripped it tighter and tighter.

His chest rose and fell.

His heart rate echoed the speed of the bedroom fan, beating quicker and quicker.

His vision blurred and a teardrop spattered the page.

He had only read the first two pages. He knew then he couldn’t read any more.

Too painful.

Patrick moaned softly and wiped his eyes.

Vanessa was right.

The click of the lock on the bathroom doorsnickedopen.

Patrick quickly closed and folded the journal, tucked it into the back of his pants, then rolled his shirt down over it.

‘What are you doing?’ asked Molly.

He didn’t answer. Didn’t want to risk fumbling for a clumsy lie.

‘Is everything alright?’ asked Molly.

She stood in front of him, just a few feet away, toweling her soaking wet hair. Her robe cinched tight at her belly, droplets of water running down her shins and over her toes and into the carpet. A pool rapidly developing around her feet.

‘Everything is just fine,’ said Patrick, his lips drawing into that practiced, winning smile that few women could resist.

He hid the lie behind his eyes, hoping she wouldn’t hear the crackle of pain in his voice.