Page 61 of Kill For Me Kill For You
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Amanda
The world had turned for Amanda.
Again.
She sat on her couch. It was now ten thirty in the morning. She needed to sleep, could feel her body becoming sluggish, but her mind was racing far too much to even contemplate getting under her sheets.
This was not how life was supposed to be. Growing up, all she’d wanted to do was paint. To capture a moment, a feeling on a canvas, gave her the greatest pleasure. She’d hoped, one day, that this would be her way of making a living. In her thirties, she’d wanted a husband and a family of her own. And for a while she’d had that security. She’d had her job that paid the bills – her art for the evenings, which might some day pay those bills.
Bringing baby Jess home from the hospital three days before Christmas, she’d known this was how life was supposed to be. She’d found her path. Her happy place. Luis had decorated the tree, cleaned the apartment, made a nest for his new daughter and the woman he loved, and Amanda had never felt so full of hope.
For those six amazing years, her life was filled with possibility and peace.
Wallace Crone had taken everything from her. Destroyed the life she had and the life that was to come. Her past and her future, gone. She couldn’t work. Couldn’t paint. Couldn’t cry. She couldn’t even mourn her husband and little girl. There was only anger and pain.
She knew she had to turn on the TV. She knew the local news would carry the story of the man she’d murdered. And yet she couldn’t do it.
What if they named him? What if they gave her guilt aname? Made it a real human being instead of an anonymous man who’d fought for his life.
Images crashed into her mind. Unbidden and unwanted. Quinn’s arm pierced by the screwdriver, and the sound made by the blade as it bit into his chest and stayed there. Moonlight reflected in the small pool of blood forming on his chest. These were new demons that she knew would haunt her memories.
She told herself that she didn’t have a choice. He would’ve killed her.
That thought didn’t dissipate the anger she felt for Naomi who’d put her in that situation.
Something happened then. Something that hadn’t happened in a long time.
Amanda cried.
She wasn’t crying for herself but for the man she’d killed.
She thought about calling Farrow. Telling him what she’d done. Naomi was a member of her counseling group, sure, but no one else knew that they’d talked privately. Bar a few irrelevant text messages and a printout from a fake web page, there was no evidence that any of their conversations had ever happened. And there was certainly nothing to back up a story about swapping murders – anyone could’ve created a fake web page. If she told Farrow the truth, things were only going to go one way – it would buy her a ticket for a life sentence without parole. Naomi had disappeared. The cops wouldn’t believe Amanda. Neither would a jury.
She had been led to this. Naomi’s plan had been to manipulate Amanda into murdering this man. Turned out she’d not needed much persuasion. Now, she needed to know why this had happened. Why had this man been a target? She had to face it. Had to turn on the TV. The only way to find out about Naomi was to find out about the man she’d murdered.
Amanda wiped her eyes, went into the living room and turned on the TV.
News was a river in America. Ever flowing, constantly changing and presented as if the viewer’s life depended on them hearing these stories right now. The newscasters were trailing a statement from the president to be made later that day. The press loved to make him out to be an idiot, and in fairness he often gave them a helping hand.
It didn’t take long for the news station to go to a local affiliate for New York. Today was Blackout Wednesday, and the NYPD would have their hands full of drunks home for the holidays and out to party before Thanksgiving tomorrow. Amanda put her index finger in her mouth, bit down on it. Just enough to hurt. She needed to be sharp. The lead story was on a fatal stabbing on the Upper East Side, then . . .
‘In other news a fifty-five-year-old man from Greenwich Village is in a critical condition in a nearby hospital today after suffering life-threatening injuries during a brutal home invasion . . .’
She shook her head. That wasn’t the story. Amanda closed her eyes, breathed out slow while she waited for the news to cover her killing.
‘. . .Neighbors called the police around eight thirty last night when they heard what sounded like a disturbance coming from his back yard . . .’
Amanda’s eyes flashed open. Held on the newscaster’s face.
‘. . . Police and paramedics found the homeowner lying on his lawn with an axe buried in his chest. His condition in hospital remains critical. In other news, the New York Fire Department . . .’
Thoughts flew around Amanda’s head as the afternoon sun sent bright sprites of sunlight dancing around her walls. He was alive. And for that she felt saved. Saved from the shame and guilt of having taken a life, even in self defense. But, if he lived, he could describe his attacker. Identify her.
She knew if the man recovered one of the first things to happen would be an interview with the cops at his hospital bedside. Maybe within the day, or tomorrow.
The cops had her mugshot. And her DNA. All of it stored following her arrest for breaching the restraining order on Crone. In the fight with the man, she might have left some DNA behind. It was possible. It had all become so brutal and messy and she’d cut her knee. They may not even need DNA. All it would take would be the man to pick her out from a six-pack of mugshots. It wouldn’t take long for them to come for her.
