Suicide Notes from Beautiful Girls

  “The problem is”—I pause—“we already have reason to believe this isn’t going to work. He’s going to get off.”

  “How do you know?”

  I shake my head. “Just trust me. We have . . . information. So now we have to let him know we’re watching him, that I’m watching him. That he has to be on his best Boy Scout behavior from now on or he won’t like the results.”

  “You mean you’ll come see him, too?”

  I nod.

  “But then he’ll know you’re alive. . . .”

  “He won’t tell anyone. I can promise you that.”

  June shakes her head and bites her pink lip, skin pudging out around her little white teeth. “I don’t understand. He’ll want to tell your mother. How could he not?” I can feel the ­little wheels spinning, spinning inside her brain. I can feel them in mine, too. I want to wrap my arms around her, cradle her, pull her to my chest like a baby.

  “We’ll convince him not to,” I say.

  “How?”

  It’s time to tell her the rest of it. “There are other things you don’t know about, things he did.” I look at her meaningfully. “He has secrets he wants to keep.”

  “Like what?” Her voice is barely a whisper.

  I shake my head. This is where I have to stop. “You don’t want to know. I won’t burden you with that. But they’re awful things, illegal things.”

  “Then why can’t we send him to jail?”

  “The justice system is fucked,” I say. “No, she’s safest if we’re the ones in control. The baby is safest if he knows we’re watching, and will always be. We have to protect the people we love.” I pause. It’s time to do it. This is it. This is everything. “But we need your help again.”

  And June stares at me. She is nodding slowly. She understands. “Okay,” she says.

  We have to do it before she changes her mind, because we need her.

  “And it’s got to be today. . . .”

  Junie’s sweet little face goes bright white. She looks like an angel. She is an angel. For a second I almost feel bad for what I’ve told her. But I remind myself that loving someone doesn’t always mean telling them everything. Sometimes the kindest thing you can do for a person is to shield them from that which will not help them. Make the decision and then carry the burden yourself, bear that weight so that they don’t have to. I know she will forgive me.

  Chapter 50

  June

  We’re standing in a circle, huddled together, our breath fogging up the frigid air around us.

  “Ready?” Evan says.

  “Ready,” I say.

  Delia leans in and gives me a hug. Her hair tickles my cheek. “I love you, Junie.”

  When she turns away, I feel Sebastian’s hand on my back. He comes in close so no one else can hear. “You don’t have to do this,” he whispers. “You know that, right?”

  The sun is starting to make its way down the gray slope of the sky. My pulse is beating in my ears. But I’m not scared anymore.

  “I know,” I say.

  When the numbers on my phone roll from 4:04 to 4:05, I go down Delia’s driveway and up the slate steps to the big gray house. I push the bell with one frozen finger. The chimes chime; the door opens.

  William looks like he hasn’t slept in a month.

  “Hi,” I say. Inside my sleeves, I squeeze my hands into fists. “Sorry to bother you again. But I was just wondering about the pictures. I mean, how you said there were more of them that I could look through. I was hoping I could still do that? I should have done it before. I was . . . kind of overwhelmed.”

  He licks his cracked lips with a dry tongue. “I understand that feeling,” he says. “Perhaps you heard what happened.”

  I nod.

  “I didn’t do what they’re saying I did.” He is speaking so slowly. I think maybe he’s on something, something he prescribed himself to relax.

  “Okay,” I say.

  But I wonder what else he really did do, what they’re going to use to blackmail him. From the way Delia was talking, I think maybe I have an idea.

  He stands there staring at nothing; he is not here anymore. He snaps back. “But, yes, the photos. Of course. Come in.”

  He steps aside as I walk through the door. He shuts it behind me and locks it. When he is up ahead, his big back to me, I reach out and twist the lock in the other direction.

  He leads me down into the basement. The albums are out and open on the sofa, like maybe he was looking through them on his own.

  “When’s the memorial at school? Maybe I should go to it. Maybe her mother would like to hear how it went.”

  “Next week,” I say. I sit down then—I don’t know what else to do. I pick up an album and slowly flip through the pages. My hands are sweating. My heart is about to escape from my chest. William sits next to me, heavy on the couch.

  I hope they come soon.

  I don’t have to wait long.

  Now there are sounds coming from upstairs, voices, footsteps.

  William stands. “Do you hear that?” He goes to the foot of the stairs. “Hello?” He starts walking up them.

  I count.

  One-two-three.

  I look down at a picture of three-year-old Delia on a tricycle. She looked like herself, even back then—the slant of her smile, something in her eyes.

  Seven-eight-nine.

  When I get to fifty, I stand and walk up the stairs too. I don’t know what I’m going to see when I pass through the door. But I need to be brave now.

  The world is only fair if you make it.

  “Well, goodness,” I hear Evan say. “You’re a feisty fella, aren’t you.” I enter into the kitchen. William is facedown on the linoleum, bucking and grunting like an animal, a broken blue mug on the floor next to him, a brown Diet Coke puddle spreading out. Evan is sitting backward on his back, wrapping a rubber cable around his wrists. Ashling is kneeling on his legs, which are already tied.

  Sebastian stands above, quietly watching.

  “June!” William shouts. He cranes his neck to look at me. “Call the police!”

  He is red faced, terrified, trying to shake them off. I think how terrified Delia must have been when he was on top of her.

  “I’m not calling anyone,” I say.

  He deserves this.

  They finish tying him. Ashling and Evan get up and step back. Then the three of them stand there staring down at him.

  “What do you want?” He manages to roll himself over onto his side. He kicks his legs, tries to stand but he can’t. “There’s no cash in the house, I don’t keep any prescription pads here . . .”

  Ashling pulls out one of the kitchen chairs. “Let’s lift him, boys.”

  The three of them pick him up. They put him on the chair, his arms behind him. And that’s when I notice the gloves, baby blue latex. They’re all wearing them.

  “Your hands,” I say.

  Evan reaches into his pocket and tosses a pair to me. “Here. We’ll clean up your prints before we leave, don’t worry.”

  My prints? I put the gloves on. The latex feels powdery and smooth.

  William is wheezing now, moving his mouth wordlessly.

  She crept up so quietly, I didn’t even hear her. “Surprise,” says Delia.

  “Oh my God.” William pitches forward. Ashling holds him back.

  “Going upstairs for a sec,” says Delia. “You stay here.”

  “Delia, wait!” William shouts. And then Delia is gone. “She’s alive?” William’s eyes are filling with tears. “How is she alive?” He turns to look at us. “I have no idea what’s happening right now, but you’re making a mistake. You don’t have to do it . . .”

  “You’re the one who made the mistake,” says Ashling. “Did you think you could try to rape h
er and then, what? Nothing would happen?”

  “There are always consequences,” says Evan. He is smiling, a different kind of smile than I’ve ever seen before. All sweetness gone.

  Sebastian shakes his head. “You stupid fuck.”

  “I didn’t do that! I would never! How is Delia still alive? How are you alive?”

  Delia is back now. She’s holding a little glass bottle and a syringe. LEVEMIR is printed on the bottle in black, and underneath, INSULIN DETEMIR. Delia puts the needle into the tiny hole at the top of the bottle, then pulls the stopper until the syringe fills up.

  “Delia,” William says. “Whatever you think you’re doing, this is insane. Please stop.”

  Delia shakes her head. “It’s not insane.” She sounds so calm. “It’s medicine. You take it every day.”

  “Wait,” I say. But no one looks at me. I take a breath. I need to calm down. I remind myself that this is all part of the plan. The plan to terrify him, show him that we are powerful and in charge. After this he will have no doubt.

  “Delia, whatever kind of trouble you’re in, I can help you. We can talk about this.”

  “It’s too late to talk,” Delia says.

  “Do you need money? I can get you as much as you need, I can wire it anywhere.”

  But Delia shakes her head. I look at the two of them together. An image flashes in my mind—her struggling under his bulk, him smiling, pressing himself against her, her desperately trying to get away, sinking her teeth into his skin.

  “Shut up,” I say to him. They turn then, all of them, surprised to hear me speak. I’m surprised too. “Don’t talk. Just listen, you rapist piece of shit.”

  Delia looks me straight in the eye. She smiles.

  “Exactly, Willy. Now is the time for you to shut up.” Delia holds up the syringe. Ashling reaches out, grabs the bottom of William’s shirt, and untucks it, revealing a line of pale pudgy belly.

  Delia puts the needle to his skin. “Where do you usually do it?” she says. “Where do you like to stick it in?”

  “Don’t,” William says. He is shaking his head, leaning far back in the chair to try to get away from her. But there is nowhere to go. He is really panicking. Just like we want him to. “It’s not too late to stop.”

  I look at Delia.

  For a moment no one moves.

  Now is when she’ll tell him what she knows. Now is when she’ll tell him what she wants. I stare. I wait.

  But Delia doesn’t say anything at all, just slides the ­needle into William’s stomach and presses down on the plunger.

  William’s face goes from bright red to stark white. He starts to struggle again. Ashling pushes him back, her hand at his throat.

  “Don’t move,” she says.

  “Don’t bruise him,” says Evan. “He’s like a big fat peach. We have to be careful or it won’t look right.”

  “Please,” William is begging now.

  Delia fills the syringe again, injects him again. What’s going on?

  “What won’t look right?” I say. “Delia?”

  “They say sometimes at the end, people get very wise,” Evan says. “Any life lessons for us, buddy?”

  “Shit,” I whisper. “What’s happening?” I think I’m starting to understand something. The gloves. The talk of fingerprints.

  Evan turns toward me. “Insulin lowers blood sugar,” he says lightly. “That’s important if you’re diabetic and your body doesn’t produce any insulin. But if you take too much and your blood sugar gets too low, you go into shock, and then you fall into a coma, and your breathing slows and your pulse slows. And then eventually . . . you are not breathing or pulsing at all anymore.”

  “Wait,” I say. “You’re actually planning on killing him.”

  At those words William lets out a cry, but he doesn’t sound surprised. I look up. I was the last to understand this.

  Ashling and Evan are watching William. Sebastian opens his mouth like he wants to say something, but he just shakes his head, closes his mouth back up. I lock eyes with Delia.

  “Junie.”

  “You said you were just going to threaten him.”

  She shakes her head. For a moment all that fire is gone. “Please don’t be mad at me, Junie.” She is speaking so quietly I can barely hear her.

  Our eyes are locked. I feel her reaching into my heart.

  “You didn’t know,” William says. His voice is suddenly very calm. “I understand that you didn’t.”

  I turn. His mouth looks wet. “Please.” His eyes are pleading and desperate. I can’t look away. He is digging his finger into the cracks of my doubt and trying to pry me apart. “Just get me some orange juice from the fridge. That’s all I need. And we can pretend like none of this ever happened. I’ll forget this ever happened . . .”

  “Shut up,” I say. But I don’t feel powerful at all anymore. “Dee Dee?” I am weak and small. “I’m scared.”

  Delia hands the syringe to Ashling. She wraps her arms around me. “This is okay. I promise, this is okay.” She pulls me to her, her body so warm against mine.

  “Don’t listen to her,” William says.

  “Shut the fuck up,” says Ashling. “Shutupshutupshutup­shutupshutup.”

  “I’m sorry I couldn’t tell you before,” Delia says. “I couldn’t. I . . . But this is what has to happen. He doesn’t deserve air, he doesn’t deserve life. The entire world will be better off if he’s not in it . . .”

  “I didn’t do anything,” William says. “June, she’s lying to you. Whatever she said . . .”

  Delia turns toward William. “You think I’m going to leave you alone in this house with my mother? With her new child? What if that baby is a girl? Will you rape her like you tried to do me?”

  “None of this is true,” he says.

  “So here’s an idea,” says Evan. “Maybe instead of a bunch of bullshit, your final words should be real.” Evan shrugs. “Come on, Willy. I’d say you have, oh, I don’t know . . . ten minutes left? Surely there must be something you want to say. You haven’t even begged for Delia’s forgiveness yet. Don’t you even want to try that?”

  “Just get me something from the kitchen,” William says. He sounds sleepy. “Anything with sugar.”

  Delia walks across the room and disappears into the kitchen then. I hear the fridge door slam shut. She comes back a second later, holding a jar of maraschino cherries. Maybe she’s changed her mind. Maybe this really was the plan all along.

  She opens, dips her fingers in, and pulls out a glistening cherry, chemical red. She holds it up. “You mean, like this?”

  William is nodding. “Yes, just like that. Please. Thank you, oh God, thank you, Delia.” He opens his mouth. Waits like a baby bird to receive it. She holds the cherry up above him, then pops it into her own mouth and crushes it between her teeth. Tears are running down his cheeks. “If you let me die, you’ll get caught.” His voice is quieter now. He sounds more drugged than before.

  “I don’t know,” Delia says. “I think being dead is a pretty good alibi, don’t you?” She grins.

  “There’ll be an investigation,” William says. “They’ll figure out what happened. No one will believe this was an accident.”

  Delia shakes her head. “Well, they don’t need to, because it isn’t an accident. Your stepdaughter killed herself, then you were arrested for your drug habit. You’re a prominent surgeon with everything to lose. Surely no one would be too shocked that you killed yourself too.”

  “The drugs,” William says. “My car.” His words are slurring. “That was you . . .”

  “Look, you even left a note.” She pulls a sheet of paper out of her pocket, unfolds it, and holds it up in front of him. “That is your handwriting, isn’t it?” It’s a long letter, the words To my darling wife written at the top.

 
Delia goes to Ashling and kisses her on the lips. “Thank you for being brilliant, babe,” she says.

  “June, please,” William says. “Youcan stopthis. Please helpme.”

  I look at Delia, my best friend who I love more than life, at William drooling in his chair. Both of them are staring at me now. I have no doubt about who is lying and who is not. This time, it is easy to tell. The question is what happens next. I think of Delia, alone in this house, alone in that room. I think of Delia’s mother. I think of that sweet tiny baby who hasn’t even entered the world yet.

  “Get me when it’s over,” I say. And I turn and walk into the kitchen. I stand in front of the refrigerator, scared to touch anything, scared to move, scared to breathe. I just stand there listening to the voices from the other room. I am dizzy. I crouch down onto the floor and press my face against the tile, trying not to pass out. I close my eyes. And after a while I hear Delia’s voice, so soft above me. “Junie, you can come back now.”

  Chapter 51

  June

  We are silent. And we are still. And my heart slows down, and everything in the room slows down, and I am not sure if I am breathing. I force myself to turn and look at him. I thought he’d look like he was sleeping.

  He does not look like he’s sleeping.

  Ashling brings her hands together in a muffled latex clap.

  “Okay,” she says. “Let’s finish this off.” And suddenly everyone is moving again.

  Ashling unties William, and his body slumps forward in his chair. She takes the syringe from Delia and positions it in William’s hand, then she curls his fist loosely around it, lets go, and it drops to the floor.

  “I’ve got the basement,” Evan says. “Junie, what did you touch down there? Just the albums?” But I can’t even open my mouth. “Don’t worry,” he says with a grin. “I’m very thorough.” And he leaves.

  “I’ve got the doorknobs,” Sebastian says.

  And I want to ask them what I’m supposed to do now, but I just stand there. And they are all moving, and I am not moving. I’m watching William’s face. And he is not moving either.

  Time passes, I think. Evan is back in the room.