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“sorry I didn’t tell you I’m the prime suspect in my friend’s murder” chicken.
(A side effect of being accused of murder is that you spend a lot of time thinking about it. You get used to it.)
It’s probably unfair to say that a podcast ruined my life. Technically, my life was destroyed the night Savvy was murdered. And then it was destroyed again, the next day, when I decided to take an early-morning stroll with her blood drying on my dress.
don’t want to think about murder, but I can’t seem to stop it. I don’t do it with everyone, but I’ve imagined killing a whole lot of people.
A soft voice, a voice I always try to ignore, whispers in my ear, “Let’s kill—”
Do I have to be politically correct about murderers now too? Jesus Christ. She was a bitch, okay? She was a huge fucking bitch.
I’ve heard that Lucy has a temper. Did you ever see that? Nina: I mean … I don’t know. Would people say she had a temper if she was a man? They’d say she stood up for herself when it was needed. So that’s what I’m going with. Lucy wasn’t afraid to stand up for herself.
She’s standing next to a rack of scissors, and I imagine ripping the plastic off and jamming it into her throat. “If you slice it like this there’s so much blood, let’s kill—” Shit. The voice is back. Shit.
What did you think, when you heard that Lucy was the prime suspect in Savannah’s murder? Emmett: I was shocked. Never in a million years did I think Lucy would hurt Savvy.
“Hitting him with your car is bo-ring,” the voice whispers in my ear. “Put your hands around his neck until you can feel the life drain out of him. That’d be fun, right? He probably deserves it. They always deserve it. Let’s kill—”
“Such a lovely throat you have there, sir,” the voice says. “It would be a shame if something happened to it.”
“Well, for one, you’re going to help him. And two, he already has.” I stop with my mouth half-open, ready to take a bite. “What?” “Colin didn’t go straight home from the wedding.”
was a real shithead. [laughter] Yeah, man, I was just not into that whole small-town life. I hated every second of it, and I hated myself for not being brave enough to just hop a bus out of there. I sort of took that out on Savvy a lot.
So, your alibi, that you told the police. That you went home and were there all night. That wasn’t true? Colin: I mean … I was home by like three a.m. Ben: The coroner put Savvy’s death somewhere between midnight and three a.m. So you were actually out and about during the time she was killed.
I’m just trying to clarify the timeline here. You were out, alone, during the time Savvy was killed. But you lied to the police and said you walked home right after she left.
A car turns onto the street, and I quickly turn the key in the ignition, turning my head so the driver can’t see my face. I watch it get smaller in my rearview mirror, and slowly let out a breath. A knock on the window makes me jump. I turn to look out the passenger’s-side window. It’s Matt.
Well, no, I mean Kyle. Kyle Porter. You know about him, of course. Ben: I’ve heard some things. Stephanie: You should talk to Kyle.
imagine closing the window, trapping his neck, hitting the gas, and dragging him down the street. “Let’s kill—”
“We’re getting divorced. She moved back to Houston.”
But Matt? Matt was sure I was guilty. My husband was too scared to be in the same house with me.
“Melting flesh smells like barbecue, and then there’s no body. Win-win!” I clench my jaw, willing the voice away. “Let’s kill—”
“I’ve never killed a woman, but I’m willing to try anything once.” I shift, trying to ignore the voice. It’s getting louder lately.
“Should have just fucking killed him. That would have been much more satisfying.”
“He was taking up-skirt photos of a girl in one of our classes,” I say.
“I think he saw me telling the teacher, because the photos were gone when they checked his phone,” I say. “I didn’t tell people because the girl he’d done it to begged me not to. She was embarrassed. So, I figured since he wasn’t getting punished, I’d take matters
into my own hands.”
So, to answer the question that a lot of you have been asking—yes. The amnesia defense is a real thing. Given the extent of Lucy’s injuries, it’s possible that she really doesn’t remember what happened that night. But is that the truth? And why is everyone in Plumpton so convinced she’s lying?
probably shouldn’t say anything, but someone’s got to tell you. Apparently, Kathleen basically told Ivy that she knew Lucy was the one who killed Savvy.
“Do you ever imagine bashing your parents’ brains in? I thought about that a time or two. That’s normal, right?”
really don’t. But once, when I went over to their house, Kathleen followed me outside after I finished talking to Lucy. And she gave me this really long hug, and when we pulled away, she was crying, and she said, “Just wait a little longer, okay? I’ll make this right.”
“Let’s kill her.” I eye my knife, but I’m too buzzed to kill Ashley. For real or otherwise.
The truth. “The truth doesn’t matter.” The voice—Savvy’s voice—is so clear now, clearer than it’s been in years. It’s always been Savvy talking to me. Since the first few days after she died, when her screams were so loud I thought my head was going to explode, to later, when she quieted to a murderous constant companion. To now, when she’s apparently had enough of me ignoring her. “Let’s kill—” I close my eyes, willing the memory away, but it won’t go. She’s been there for days now, on the edge of every thought I have, yelling at me to notice her. The memory forms, bright and clear, like it
...more
have an idea.” Savvy leaned closer to me. She met my eyes. Her mouth was set in a hard line, her gaze steely and serious. “Let’s kill your husband.”
And then Savvy’s standing next to Nina, grinning with her smudged eyeliner, dark blond hair piled on top of her head in a messy bun. I freeze. She’s a horrible, perfect hallucination. Everything I’ve been shoving into the deep recesses of my mind for five years come back to life to haunt me. I want to force her out again. She shouldn’t be whispering to me, and she sure as shit shouldn’t be standing here with that familiar smirk on her face. Nothing good will come of it.
force a smile as I slide into a chair, and brace myself as the memory of that day with Savvy forms again, as clear as ever.
“I’ve seen bruises on you so many times, and I know you’re not even telling me the worst of it.”
I just couldn’t bring myself to put together words to explain how he’d choked me until I blacked out. Or when “things had gotten out of control” (as he always liked to put it) and he’d dragged me by my hair from the kitchen to the living room and then slammed my head repeatedly into the hardwood floors until I saw stars.
They didn’t know who the mystery woman was, but apparently you were shouting at her, and then she left. And then you got back into your car and drove away. So, you told the police you were home all night,
but you were actually out during the time Savvy was murdered.
“Let’s kill him before he kills you,” Savvy says in my ear. “Didn’t I tell you how good I am at that? I can make a man wish he never laid eyes on me, much less hands.”
“My mom brought me out here after the police opened the area back up. We walked around, hoping it would spark a memory.”
“Oh shit.” Ben’s voice sounds far away, but when I sway, I hit him instead of the ground. He slows my fall but we both still end up in the dirt. I don’t think he’s caught very many swooning ladies. He’s not very good at it.
“Murdering your husband can be our secret,” Savvy whispers. “But then you’re stuck with me for life. There’s no dumping a friend once you’ve committed a felony together.”
He takes a long sip of his drink. “She thinks Matt killed her.”
But Matt goes, “That little slut hates me.” Ben: … He said “little slut” in front of you? Beverly: He sure did. He muttered it under his breath, and he looked a little embarrassed after, like he hadn’t meant to say it. Don just laughed a little, like he was embarrassed too, and I don’t think either of them realized I’d heard.
She said, “That’s usually when men kill the woman. When they try to leave.” And I said, “I actually don’t think Matt would do that.” “Is that really a risk you want to take?” she’d asked. No. It wasn’t.
“You know what I would do,” she says with a grin. I shift on my barstool. “I’d let him fuck me in the bathroom.” She has a wistful look in her eye. “And then probably out back behind the bar too. Remember that time you found me in the parking lot of the Charles? That guy had me bent over the hood of his car, my naked ass in the air, and you rushed over because you thought he was raping me? And I had to be like, oh no, honey, this was my idea.”
For someone who said she doesn’t drink much, she sure is putting away those margaritas.
Then he tosses the ice on the coffee table, leans over, and kisses me. I’m in his lap almost immediately, his hands under my dress and on my thighs. I can’t remember why I thought this was a bad idea. This is a great idea. This is the best idea I’ve had since arriving in this cursed city.
He pulls my dress down around my waist, his hands on my breasts. I unbutton his pants. I’d like to blame the vodka for that decision. And I’d like to blame the whiskey for letting him yank off my underwear so we can have sex right there on the couch. But that would be a lie.