White Pawn Read online

  “Okay,” I say, taking a deep breath as I push to my feet. “Now, we have to clean the rest of the apartment, the tub and the toilet, and then we need to drive somewhere, to an ocean. Toss the clothes and,” I bend and pick up the grimy hacksaw, “this. After we clean it, of course.”

  Justin stares through me, his head slightly bobbing back and forth. I’m a little worried this may have been too much for him. I mean, it hasn’t been a walk in the fucking park for me, but at least I know it’s for the greater good. Justin, he just thinks he’s a cold-blooded killer. Bless him. “Babe, it’s okay. Things happen and if you can’t remember anything, well, what’s to say she didn’t attack you first?” A little bit of hope dances across his face when he looks up at me. “I mean, you aren’t violent or angry. You aren’t a killer. You just write about them and manage to sprinkle a little love in there, too.” I open the vanity and grab a garbage bag. One of those vanilla scented ones that smell so nice.

  “No. It doesn’t make any sense... ”

  “People snap. You’ve been under stress,” I say as I ball her clothes up and toss them into the little white bag. “We just, you know, move forward.”

  “I don’t even know what to say to you, you... ” He shakes his head. “You should have never gotten involved in this.”

  I shrug as I tie a knot in the plastic bag. “Every love story needs a grand gesture of love.”

  He smiles. For the first time since #HavingAGreatTimeWIthAmy turned into #HacksawingAGreatTimeWithAmy, he smiles.

  “Come here,” he says, and I do. I drop the bag to the floor and walk to him, sinking to my knees. His fingers skim over my jaw, brushing up so sweetly into my hair that I’m certain has blood in it. I watch his ocean blue eyes narrow, I see them swirling with an epiphany, a moment. The tension mounts, my heart thrums. Yes, Justin. This is it. It’s right no matter how wrong it feels...

  “I love you,” he whispers with such emotion I feel the earth shift beneath me. That static electricity buzzes and snaps, swelling until I’m certain it consumes half of Manhattan, and then, he kisses me with the reverence of a priest saying his last rite. Because this is love. This is a passage. This is our story, fucked up and twisted and perfect.

  “I love you, too, Justin.” I inhale his breath. “I love you, too, now give me her phone.”

  Smiling, I stand by the Hudson river and type out a post. Sometimes you just want to run away from your problems. Poof. Vanish into thin air. The breeze ripples across the water and I take in a deep breath of salty air. The things is, they’ll look at her Facebook posts. They’ll see she posted from NYC at 4:46:43 on Tuesday, March 13th. They’ll see that she texted Justin last night, but they’ll see his texts from this morning asking what happened to her. And it’s not like they’ll ever find her.

  I dig through my purse and take out a hand wipe, carefully cleaning her phone before I chuck it into the river. Splash. And that’s the end of that. I’m proud of myself for covering our tracks, Justin. I really am. You see, this is where having the creative mind of an author really comes in handy. When you write the depraved stuff like I do, it’s not out of the ordinary to have a search history that includes things such as: The quickest way to poison someone. Hacksaws. How to cover up a murder. How to clean blood from grout. What sound does a knife slicing through skin make. I almost want to make a Facebook post about it, laughing as I type out: #AuthorLife #AllTheDarkWords #ByeFeliciaBetterKnownAsHavingAGreatTimeWithAmy.

  Life is great. It really is. The weather is perfect. There’s not a cloud in the sky, and I am Justin Wild’s one and only. I am his confident. The keeper of his secrets. I am the envy of every woman in our little book world. My phone beeps. Ed again, insisting we have coffee. This time he’s saying he knows which coffee shop I always check into and he’ll stalk me if he must. Well, Ed, you are quiet the romantic, aren’t you? But woo me you cannot, because you aren’t my soulmate. I’m not bound to you by blood, Ed, I’m not. I’m bound to Justin.

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Marisa

  “Bang, Bang” – 2 Cellos, Sky Ferriera

  I stand at the coffee shop counter, waiting for the barista to finish up my order. It’s been two weeks since #HavingAGreatAmy left this world, and Justin’s not taking it so well. Which I can understand, really, I can. Traumatic events will fuck with you, I mean, after all, I did have a nervous breakdown when John cheated on me with that fucking blonde. And then, when I killed him, oops, see, I shouldn’t confess to that, but, I did it, and well, I wasn’t the murdering type. Having to stage it all to look like a suicide, that did a number on me, but what really sent me teetering over the edge like a lead weight was the worry. The paranoia. The waiting on the shoe to drop. Which, it never did... funny how easy it is to get away with murder, and once you can justify it in your head, you’re golden. The problem here is, I don’t know how to make Justin justify killing Amy because he doesn’t see what a threat she was to our happiness.

  He wakes up at night in full-on sweats, screaming and sometimes crying. He paces. And as far as having sex? Forget that. He can’t even get hard. He’s so preoccupied with what he did... on and on he goes, questioning, trying to put pieces of a puzzle together that will never fit. And then, of course, he’s cancelled all his signings, which is great. That was the point after all, wasn’t it? To get all those horrible distractions out of our lives and—someone bumps into me, snatching me from my train of thought. “Sorry.”

  I turn around and my heart pitter-patters like a soft summer rain on a tin roof. I’m staring into his blue eyes, that sweet smile. “Oh,” I manage to squeak out, “it’s fine... Ed.”

  “Told you I’d find you?” he smirks. I feel the barista’s eyes boring into me because Ed, singer extraordinaire, is standing in this coffee shop, smiling at me. “When does your next book come out?”

  “I uh... I uh... ” I swallow. My cheeks are on fire. I’m swaying from side to side. He’s so pretty. I just want to take his hand and lead him out of this coffee shop and to Central Park and have him sing sweet love songs to me. Ed is standing in front of me waiting. Waiting on a response. “Um, I don’t have a release date yet.”

  “God, you’ve got me on pins and needles. Loved that story, actually,” he takes his coffee from the barista, “I uh, I wrote a song based on it.”

  “You did?” I want to clap and scream and jump, but I don’t.

  “Yeah, you know, I’d uh, I’d love to sing it to you.” He smiles and my traitorous heart swoons. “I’ll sing it here if you like?”

  “Are you... ” I small gasp leaves my lips. “Are you serious? Oh my god, I would love that.”

  He glances back at the barista. “You don’t mind, do you?”

  She shakes her head, a dumbfounded expression plastered to her face. I’m sure she hates me, and she should. I’m fucking Justin Wild, and Ed... is one of my fans. I’m one lucky bitch. My heart fills to the brim with expectations and excitement. Two fans of each other’s work. That makes a perfect love story doesn’t it, Justin? Doesn’t it, Ed? I twinge of guilt plucks at my heart as I think about Justin sitting at the apartment, waiting on the Caramel Macchiato that is growing colder by the second.

  Ed clears his throat, smiles—his sweet dimples popping out as he does—and then, he sings: “Love... hmmm... crazy, crazy love, my dear. Walk along the track my dear with my crazy love... ”

  He sings the most beautifully poetic song, the entire shop frozen in a hypnotic trance by the sound of his voice. Some people are videoing with their phones, and I’m fighting to contain myself. My cheeks hurt from how hard I’m smiling. My heart is thrumming like a hummingbird’s wings, and when he finishes, all I can do is throw my arms around him and kiss him—just a peck, but I kiss him on his warm, sweet lips and he kisses me back. People applaud and whistle, and it’s like a moment from a movie, perfect and unplanned. Spontaneous.

  “I’m in town for a show, we should hang out.” He smiles, pulls his phone from his jean pocket, and h
ands it to me. “Give me your number and I’ll call you.” He winks and I melt. I quickly type in my number and give his phone back to him. “Well, I’ll see you later, Marisa.”

  And he leaves, everyone watching as he goes. I compose myself and head out of the coffee shop with my Vanilla Latte and Justin’s Caramel Macchiato.

  When I open the door to Justin’s apartment, he’s still lying on the couch, Cobain’s head resting on the cushion. “Hey babe, got your coffee,” I say as I cross the living room. He glances over and smiles, those purple circles below his eyes even more distinct than when I left.

  “Marisa. Fuck... I can’t take this. I’m going to get caught.” He sits up, leans over his knees, and drags his hand through his hair. Cobain huffs and lies on the floor. “I’m going to go to jail.”

  “No, you aren’t. Two weeks. They interviewed you and you’re done. You aren’t even a suspect.” I hand his coffee to him, but he just holds it loosely. I keep watching the lid, waiting for the coffee to trickle out.

  “It’s all over the news.” He wipes his hand over his face. “All over the news now.”

  “And it will be. She disappeared. And they aren’t ever going to find her. She’s mixed with mountains of piss and shit and used condoms by now.”

  He glares at me. “Am I crazy?”

  “No.”

  “I feel crazy.”

  “I know.” I do know, but I can’t tell him. I want to tell him I did it, that I used him like a puppeteer would a jangly little puppet, moving the strings just so to lift his arm to kill #HavingAGreatTimeWithAmy, but he won’t understand that I did it because I love him that much.

  I know he’s torturing himself thinking he’s some monstrous murderer, but really, if you want to get to the heart of it, he always was a type of murderer. He slaughtered all those girls’ hearts he fucked his way through, tossing out promises like a pageant queen tossing out Mr. Goodbars from a fucking Christmas Parade float.

  “I just,” he says, taking my hand in his. “I don’t know what I would do without you. You’re... ” he shakes his head and his eyes fall to his lap, “just so good to me.”

  “I love you, Justin.”

  He reaches across and places his hand on my tummy, his gaze narrowing. “I love you, too,” he whispers. And I think he’s accepting it all now. Me and him and the baby. “You can’t ever leave me, Marisa.”

  “I wouldn’t.” I place my hand over his. “We wouldn’t.” And I smile, thinking “Checkmate” in my head, but something—something doesn’t feel right. It’s like I’m faking that checkmate, because have I truly won? He loves me now, he sees how special I am, how much I love him. The sacrifices I’ve made... but still, something is off about this entire ordeal. My phone buzzes. Ding-a-ling-ling. I look down at a text: Tonight at 8, Central Park? xX Ed. Your lips are addicting, BTW. ;)

  My chest tightens. Something like a gang of angry bees swarms in my stomach. I should say no... I glance up at Justin, at my sad, broken Justin and guilt slams over me full force. Sure, he went off and sunk himself balls deep into girls when we were together, but we weren’t together like we are now.

  Maybe this intoxicating rush buzzing through me, this sensation of being wanted desperately by more than one person at time is why Justin did it. But, I’m not that person. I’m not a cheater, and god knows we don’t need two kings on this board, so I turn my ringer off, set my phone down, and lie back on the couch.

  “Lay with me,” I say to Justin. His face softens and he comes to me, laying his head right over my heart. I hope he hears the way it beats for him, how it quickens at his touch. “It’s all going to be okay,” I whisper, stroking my fingers through his hair. “Everyone makes mistakes.”

  “I just wish I could remember why I did it.”

  “It wouldn’t change anything, and besides, everything happens for a reason. There was a reason she had to die... ” I take a breath because maybe that sounded too certain... “I’m sure there was.” Fifth element... “Honestly, I think you get too into your characters. That book you are working on,” I shake my head, “it’s messed up, babe. I mean, haven’t you read The Shining?”

  “Yeah... ”

  “You’re Jack Torrence,” I laugh.

  But all he does is glare at me. “It was the hotel that possessed him, not his writing.”

  I roll my eyes. “What I’m saying is, stuff gets to you.”

  “I just, want it to go away.” He huffs and places his hand back on my stomach. We lie in silence for a few minutes, and I watch him. I can see his mind whirring, his thoughts chasing him to the brink of insanity. I know. I’ve been chased there and it’s not a pretty place at all.

  “I hope it’s a boy,” he says. “If it’s a boy can we named him Gage? Gage Creed Wild?”

  My heart flutters and my chest swells with pride. “We can name him whatever you want, babe,” I say. “Whatever you want.” Even though your last name’s not really Wild...

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Justin

  “Human”- Rag’n’Bone Man

  I can’t move. I want to scream, to tell the person holding me to stop, but I can’t. My arm raises, even though I tell it not to. The blade of the knife gleams and then—A police siren blares outside the window and I jolt up from the couch, straight to my feet. A cold sweat drenches my skin and my heart is racing. I stumble and catch myself on the coffee table. Cobain sits up in his bed, ears lifted. He howls and barks at the screaming racket, and I rush to the window, certain they’ve come for me. I watch the little red and blue flashing lights bounce off the buildings and sweat builds underneath the collar of my shirt. The squad car rounds a corner, wheels screeching. The lights fade along with the wailing siren, and I release the breath I’d been holding. Cobain ruffs one last time before lying back in his bed.

  My mind won’t stop. Day and night, night and fucking day, all I can do is try and piece together what happened that night. I remember Marisa coming over and leaving and then... nothing except for blurry memories of me and a knife and a shit-ton of blood. I barely sleep because I dream about it when I do. I rest my forehead against the glass, staring down at the bustling street, wishing I was the person I thought I was. Sane. But, really, what author is truly sane? I mean, we have voices inside our heads, we just get paid to let them out onto paper.

  I turn from the window and pace. Thinking. Thinking. Thinking. It feels like my head is constantly swelling, growing bigger and bigger with each incoherent thought I shove inside of it. I’m just waiting for it to pop. Bang. Brains all over the fucking walls. If I had a gun, I’d probably have blown my brains out by now.

  I grab my MacBook, sit on the edge of the couch, and I open a Word document.

  To love is to be insane, truly, it is. And she made me crazy. Obsession. Possession. All I wanted was her. Only her. All I wanted was the perfect story. So, you’ll understand, dear reader, why I had to kill him. She was mine and the thread that bound the spine of our book was of blood and bone. A love bought and paid for with lives... I write until my fingers ache, until the day fades to night. Thoughts of blood and death whirling in my mind like a magnificent wind. I write until the lines between fiction and reality are so blurred, I can’t tell you were the truth lies. And it’s cleansing. It’s beautiful, but what kind of monster thinks shit like this is beauty? Hanging my head, I scratch my fingers through my hair. I don’t feel safe inside my own mind. Madness... I think this feeling is madness. Maybe I should be thankful because isn’t this the state in which most authors find their most lucrative muse, in a state of utter chaos, steps away from insanity? Lewis Carrol? Don’t tell me that motherfucker wasn’t toeing the line of clinically insane, fucking Mome Raths and Cheshire Cats.

  I set the computer to the side of the couch and, without much thought, I walk to the kitchen, but I freeze the second my bare feet touch the kitchen tile. This room haunts me. I don’t want to see that image of the bumpy sheet. The handprints on the wall... I close my eyes on my way to the
fridge to get a beer, only opening them when I feel the stainless-steel handle beneath my palm and yank the door open. The dim interior light blinks. I grab the last two beers and shut the door. I keep my eyes closed until I feel the hardwood underneath my feet, and then I pull my phone from my pocket to text Marisa that we need more beer. The sound of the Sherwood Forest Horn blares from my couch. Great, she left her phone. I fish it out from the cushion and it beeps again. The screen lights up and a little green text bubble appears. I’m at Central Park. Come see me. xX Ed.

  “Motherfucker!” I shout, gripping her phone. And I scroll back. Your lips are addicting. She’s no better than Meredith. She’ll leave me. I swipe my hand through my hair. I take a sip of beer. And Ed texts again. By Bow Bridge.

  Oh, you fuckface, you! I take her phone and I grab a jacket before storming out of the apartment, right past that kitchen and straight to the subway that drops off at 72nd Street.

  I wave at the man selling carriage rides as I hurry along the street and head down the stairs. I veer off the sidewalk. The dry grass crunches underneath my shoes. Couples are walking close together on the winding path that leads through the park, kissing, laughing. And I’m seething. First, Chris Talon and now this ballfuck named Ed. I’m not losing to a guy named Ed. Ed’s not going to sink balls deep into her. That’s my job. I’m not losing her, because I love her and she’s carrying my baby, and she fucking knows I murdered someone. I’m not losing her to some assfuck. I’m not. I’m better, I am! Fuck you, Ed! No, she’s fstuck with me. Love is love. Promises are promises from here on out, goddamn it, Marisa with one ‘s’. You belong to me ‘til death do us part.