Total pages in book: 72
Estimated words: 71403 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 357(@200wpm)___ 286(@250wpm)___ 238(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 71403 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 357(@200wpm)___ 286(@250wpm)___ 238(@300wpm)
And she’s been drinking a lot more since Bill came into the picture.
Every time I saw the wine glasses come out, I sneaked into her bathroom and nabbed a pill, crushed it into a powder with a mortar and pestle, and stuffed it in a plastic bag I’ve been hiding in an old teddy bear. A gift from my father before he died. It’s going to prove more useful than he could have ever imagined.
I found a multivitamin brand that looks exactly like the sleeping pills. Every time I grabbed one from Emmy’s stash, I replaced it with a vitamin. She’s getting some extra nutrients. Good for her.
Every time I’ve gone into town to pick up groceries and supplies, I’ve plied anyone who would listen with stories of Emmy’s struggles in her new marriage. The late-night arguments, the sounds of things being thrown. I even fashioned a tale for the postman about how she’s been looking into bumping up Bill’s life insurance policy.
Every time she and Bill went out, I got on to her computer. Googled “barbiturate overdose symptoms,” “how to dissolve pills,” “life insurance payout.” Just a search here and there at the beginning, and then deeper dives as the weeks passed on. Emmy doesn’t know how to check her search history, and I’m certainly not going to erase anything.
With one week to go, I snagged a cup from the kitchen. We have many, and they’re all identical. Emmy wouldn’t know the difference. I made sure it was a dirty one with her fingerprints on it.
I sprinkled tiny amounts of the bag of powder I’d amassed—thanks, Teddy—around the sink and near Bill’s bedside.
Emmy works her way down the glasses in the cupboard methodically. Right to left. Every night she prepares a glass of water for Bill that he drinks at his bedside, always finishing it before going to sleep.
Tonight will be no different. But the glass I stole will be back in the cupboard, lined with the fine powder. When Emmy pours in water, she won’t notice it. It will dissolve immediately.
It won’t be enough to do the trick, but the residue in the cup will point the way toward her.
The night comes. Emmy prepares the glass of water. She selects the correct cup. I know because I put a small chip in it to make sure. She places it on Bill’s nightstand. While he’s getting ready for bed, I steal into their bedroom and mix the rest of my powder into the cup. A dosage big enough to kill a rhinoceros. I mix it in with a paper spoon that I promptly flush down Emmy’s toilet along with the plastic bag that held the powder, making sure an infinitesimal amount gets under the rim of the toilet bowl.
Then I go to bed, ripping open the wound on my leg as I do so. The blood pours out, and the pain sears through me. I bite down on my pillow to keep from screaming.
But now I have my alibi. I’ve been in bed all night, wracked with pain from my stitches opening.
No one else is around but Emmy and Bill.
Soon it will just be Emmy.
She won’t know until morning. As far as she knows, Bill will go to sleep just like he does every other night.
The next morning, I awake to a scream.
Bill lies dead in Emmy’s bed.
Heart attack? Stroke?
She calls the cops, exactly like she would.
While she does this, I grab the cup from Bill’s bedside and clean it poorly with just a damp rag. Leave it in the sink.
The police question me. I make sure my pigtails are neat, that the gingham dress I’m wearing is clean. I mention again that Bill and Emmy had a fight last night. They did. It’s not a lie. They fight every night.
They take Bill’s body away. A few days later we get the call. Barbiturate overdose.
He didn’t suffer.
Not like I did.
They start investigating. The cup is still in the sink. Emmy has been too distraught to notice. We’ve had takeout the last few nights for dinner. They find the cup, discover the residue inside. Emmy’s fingerprints, not mine. They interview locals who recount the stories I told them. They check her computer, see the suspicious searches.
It’s all circumstantial. But with enough circumstantial evidence, an arrest can be made.
They take her away, put me in foster care.
Most people who are in foster care have horror stories, but I flourish there.
I never see Emmy again.
She’s probably figured out what I did by now.
Only two people were in the house that night, and she knows she didn’t do it.
But she’s the wicked stepmother who married the abusive stepfather.
The narrative writes itself.
When I’m eighteen, I move to Chicago. I’m going to study meteorology at U of C.
And I never return to Kettle Springs again.
The case of Bill’s death has been closed for years.