Listen for the Lie

by Amy Tintera

To be fair to Ben Dipshit Owens, Nathan and I probably wouldn’t have made it more than another month or two, even without a surprise murder thrown into the relationship. We’d only been dating for three months when he offered to let me move in with him. My lease was up, and we were still in the sex-all-the-time phase of our relationship, so it seemed logical. I was there every night anyway.

I stab the knife into the chicken, right between the breast and thigh. I may have used a bit more force than necessary. Nathan jumps. I smile. At this rate, he’s going to end up married to a murderer.

A slim blond woman is tapping a butternut squash with one finger, and I try very hard not to imagine smashing the squash against her head. I fail. Squash, as it turns out, is a weakness of mine. I wonder whether it would even hold up after being smashed against a human head. It would probably explode and you’d just end up with a headache and squash all over your face. The woman looks up and notices me staring at her. I smile like I wasn’t just imagining bludgeoning her to death. She walks away, casting an alarmed glance over her shoulder at me. I really should try to be less of an asshole.

So far, no luck. But maybe one day I’ll stumble on it. I’ll imagine killing a waitress with my empty milkshake glass and it will all come rushing back. Ah yes! That’s right! Savvy and I fought over whether strawberry or chocolate milkshakes were best and I flew into a rage and murdered her with my glass. Take me away, Officer!

“It’s a small favor, really, and I’d like to remind you that I’m nearly dead.” “You’ve been saying you’re nearly dead for twenty years.” “Well, then it stands to reason that I must really be getting close then!” She cackles. “Are you drunk?” “Lucy, it is two o’clock in the afternoon. Of course I’m not drunk.” She pauses. “I’m merely slightly tipsy.”

can’t have it without my favorite grandchild there.” She’s switched to guilt. “You do know that it’s tacky to tell me I’m your favorite when you have three grandchildren?” “We both know that Ashley and Brian are assholes.” “I think we’re supposed to pretend to like them anyway.” “Well. I can’t have a birthday party with only the assholes.”

“Do you think you could take some time off work?” she asks. “I was fired.” “Oh, perfect! I mean, I’m sorry,” she adds hurriedly. “You know I didn’t like that job anyway.” “I retract my apology. Congratulations on being fired.”

Seven days in the place where I’d once been successful, and married, and had lots of friends who were jealous of my (fake) happiness.

“Nonsense, I want to. I’ll be dead soon anyway.” We might all be dead soon, but that seems like too much to hope for. “Sure, this weekend.” I reconsider her last statement. “Wait, are you sick?” “Not that I know of, but my friends are dropping like flies, so really, it’s only a matter of time.”

For fuck’s sake. Men are such babies. They’re too scared to actually break up with you, so they just get mean or fade away until you get mad and dump them. Risky move, making a suspected murderer angry enough to dump you.

They’re usually some version of “How do you live with yourself, you heartless bitch?” or “You’re going to hell,” except almost always with the wrong your, which is extremely distracting. An insult doesn’t have the intended impact when spelled incorrectly. I’d reply to let them know, but, in my experience, dumbasses don’t appreciate having their spelling corrected.

I start to push the murder thoughts away, but every therapist I’ve been to (and I’ve been to several) has wanted me to deal with the violent fantasies instead of just trying to make them stop. I recently admitted to my latest therapist that trying to avoid murdering people in my head has just resulted in me murdering even more people in my head. She was very supportive of my idea to just let the thoughts fly and see what happens. So, I imagine Dad’s brains splattering across the couch again and head upstairs to see Mom.

Grandma nods in agreement, and then reaches into a cabinet to grab a bottle of vodka. She pours some into her tea. Mom purses her lips. “Mom, it’s not even noon.” “What’s your point?” She pours a little more into the glass. “Lucy, you want some?” “No, thank you.” I try not to laugh. “I seriously don’t understand developing a drinking problem in your seventies,” Mom says. Grandma sits at the head of the table. “Why not? Way I see it, seems like the perfect time to develop a drinking problem. It’s dull as hell around here.”

“You’re sure you don’t want roses? Your mom said pink roses.” The florist frowns at me suspiciously, like I’ve come into her shop with the intention of ruining my grandma’s birthday party. I press the call button on my phone and put Grandma on speaker. She picks up right away. “Hello?” “Grandma. Opinion on pink roses?” “Tell your mother I will vomit on her pink roses.” I raise my eyebrows at the florist. She purses her thin, red lips, like she’s very insulted on behalf of pink roses everywhere.

I’d never gotten the hang of the rich-person lifestyle. There was so much guilt involved. Every time his parents would come over there were little jabs thrown everywhere. Remarks about upkeep and resale value. A snide comment about the brewery (which they also paid for). I’d rather be broke in an apartment with a foot-fetishist landlord than deal with that.

“I’m really not interested in getting into the podcast game.” “I don’t mean with the podcast. Not directly, anyway. I’m not going to pay you.” “This offer sounds irresistible already.” “Work with me to figure out who murdered Savannah.” “Besides me, you mean.” “Or you. Full disclosure, if you did it, I’m going to tell everyone.”

“Great,” I say dryly. He cocks an eyebrow. “Fine. Whatever. Monday,” I say. “First interview. I’ll be ready.” “I’m always ready,” the voice sings. “Let’s fuck someone up!”

I’m suddenly reminded that it’s been at least a month since I had sex, since Nathan and I had been in a dry spell pre–murder revelation. It’s been much longer since I had really great sex (thanks for nothing, Nathan).

I can’t help but think that Nina is here to torture me. She’s the living embodiment of what I could have been, if I’d had an hourglass figure and a touch more common sense.

“I’ve always thought Emmett was cute,” I said, glancing over to where he was standing by the door to the restaurant. “Yeah, but he’s like ‘shove you up against a wall and fuck you’ hot now,” she said, and then laughed at the expression on my face. “You’re ridiculous, you know that?” “I didn’t say anything.” “You blush like a schoolgirl every time I bring up sex. I wish we’d hung out in high school. I would have had the most fun corrupting you.”

I’m still defined by everything that happened to me in my hometown. By my first husband, and the life I had in my early twenties. I’m like the football jock who never gets over peaking in high school, except I’m the tragic murder version. Fuck, that’s depressing.

I clear my throat and force a smile at Emmett. “Yeah. Fine. Great.” I am not okay. Letting myself think about Savvy again has brought her back to life, and I don’t think she’s going to leave until I figure out what happened to her. I will be haunted by my friend and her murderous musings for the rest of my life unless I get my shit together.

“He deserves it,” I confirmed quietly. “But even if I wanted to kill him—” “We,” Savvy interrupted. “Even if we wanted to kill him. I wouldn’t make you do it alone.” I huffed out a laugh. “Damn, Savvy, I knew you were ride or die, but that’s next-level.”

She tossed her hair over her shoulder with a grin. “I’m the best friend in the world, you can say it. And as the best friend in the world, I would be delighted to help you off your dickhead husband.” I stared at her, still convinced she must have been kidding. She cocked an eyebrow. “What do you say? Are we going to kill a dude or what?”

“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.”

Beverly: Well, I could tell that Lucy was madly in love. And I wanted to like him, for her sake, but … I didn’t really. He was so charming, in that way that’s always felt suspicious to me. Ben: Can you elaborate on that? Beverly: Some men, they’ve got to put on a show when they’re around women. It’s like they don’t actually know how to talk to us, so they choose over-the-top chivalry. “If I pull out her chair and make a big show of talking about how moms are heroes and women are actually the strong ones, they won’t notice that I don’t have any interest in listening to a single word that comes out of their mouths.” Matt was like that. Ben: Did you tell Lucy your concerns?

Beverly: I did. Lucy called me all excited, telling me Matt proposed, and I said, “Honey, why don’t you wait a bit? You’re so young. Go to Europe. Buy an old van and travel the country. Don’t get married. You have your whole life to be married.” She didn’t like that, of course. And when she asked if I didn’t like Matt, I told her, no, I didn’t. I said that I got a bad feeling from him, and that if he really loved her, he would understand that she wanted to wait a few years to get married. What kind of twenty-two-year-old boy wants to get married these days anyway? We’re not Mormons, for Christ’s sake. Ben: What was her response? Beverly: She was polite, but it was obvious that she wasn’t going to take my advice. I can’t blame her. I was the same way when I was her age. Stars in my eyes. Thinking about my pretty white dress and the chubby little babies who would look up at me adoringly. In the end, life is just sweatpants and children who resent you and all your choices. But no one wants to hear that.

“Whose truck is that?” “A friend’s.” Grandma plops down at the kitchen table. “Which friend?” Mom closes the door and hobbles over. “Just a friend.” “How many friends do you have these days?” “I don’t know, Kathleen, a few,” Grandma says, exasperated. “I’m a likable person.” “Wouldn’t know what that’s like,” I quip. She puts a soft hand over mine. “Better to be interesting than likable, in my opinion.”

Like I had nothing to say to the police. What could I say? No, Officer, I definitely never would have killed Savvy, because actually we were planning to kill my husband together? Not much of a defense. I could have confessed that plan, and my suspicions that maybe, for whatever reason, we decided to go after Matt that night, and Matt killed Savvy in self-defense. And then he let everyone think that I did it as a giant fuck you to me.

But, no excuses. We didn’t even use a condom, which is really just the icing on my bad-decision cake. I’ve had an IUD for years, so there are no smug babies in my immediate future, but who knows where Ben has been sticking that thing. He fucks like he gets around. A little podcast souvenir. I should get a T-shirt: I was the subject of a true crime podcast and all I got was this T-shirt and gonorrhea.

“The police.” She snorted. “No. I think the self-defense argument would have looked a little thin, given how many times I stabbed him.” “How—how many times did you stab him?” My voice was a whisper. “Maybe a few more times than was strictly necessary. Plus a couple more for good luck.” I didn’t know whether I was horrified or impressed. “I thought the blood would bother me more, honestly.” Savvy shrugged. “It was a mess, which was annoying. This guy saw me coming out of the restroom with blood all over my hands, and I panicked for a minute, and then just went, ‘Oh my god, my period is so bad today!’ You should have seen the look on his face.” I gaped at her.

He strolls over to me as I get out of the car, tossing his dark hair out of his eyes in a way that seems practiced. Like he rehearsed being sexy in a mirror. “Why are you always here?” I ask. “I’m not always here.” “You’re not fucking me and my grandma, are you? That would really bum me out.” “I am not fucking your grandma. Honestly, I don’t think Beverly could fit me into the rotation. She has a lot of men coming around.”

“He likes that you’re more relaxed here,” Grandma says without looking up from her phone. Ben appears startled, like that was something that Grandma inferred on her own. I take it back. My grandmother is too smart to sleep with Ben Owens. It’s too bad common sense isn’t genetic.

Several times I imagine mowing him down with my car. I feel like I deserve credit for not doing it. I drive straight to Nina’s house. I’m showing up unannounced, which is a real dick move, especially since she has kids, but I’ve lost all my fucks. I have no more to give.

I wait, but she doesn’t elaborate. “I would never sleep with your husband, for the record,” Savvy says. “Because I’m a good friend, but also because you have terrible taste in men.”

There’s a knife on the counter, where he was cutting limes. I imagine grabbing it and sticking it in his chest. In and out, in and out. “Fucking Exorcist style!” Savvy shouts gleefully. The lamp in the corner is heavy enough to do some damage against his head. The pen near my fingers could probably go in his throat, if I put some muscle behind it. Or I could just put a pillow over his head while he’s sleeping tonight. “Bo-ring,” Savvy sings. “Lucy.” Ben leans forward, peering at me. “What are you thinking about, when you do that?” I snap. “I’m thinking about killing you,” I say.

“You don’t understand. The things I say to him, the way I’ve screamed at him…” I shook my head. “A better woman wouldn’t talk like that. She wouldn’t hit back. I think we were drawn to each other because we’re both garbage.” “Lucy, no.” She grabbed my hand. “Absolutely not. He did this to you. He drove you to the brink of your sanity and then blamed you for doing what you had to do to survive. All of this is his fault.”

“We fooled around, at the wedding,” Emmett says. “We were … Well, we kept doing that. You remember, the times before that. You and I are always making our way to each other.” That was one way to describe my getting drunk and kissing him twice, I guess. “Savvy saw us, and she got really mad. I don’t know if she ever told you, but she and I had a brief fling. It was nothing, just a couple of times, but she acted really cold to me after. I think maybe she thought it was more than it was?” That was one way to describe Savvy avoiding him after bad sex.

Does that bother you? Lucy: Sort of. I don’t think it’s too much to ask, that everyone not think the absolute worst of me all the time. But I’m not all that concerned about it anymore. I am not responsible for the fake version of me you created in your head.