Cause of Death by Laura Dembowski (ereader iphone .TXT) 📗

“It’s what we both want; I just took matters into my own hands. No harm, no foul.” She is still cool, calm, and collected.

“You don’t get to propose to yourself—buy your own ring!”

“I’m gonna need your credit card information to purchase it. It’s just on loan for the night, but it’s perfect, isn’t it?” she asks, batting her eyes at me.

“Not really,” I say, unfazed by her girly charm. “It looks expensive.”

“It’s my engagement. I can imagine wearing it forever, or at least ’til our tenth anniversary, when we’ll buy a new ring for me, of course.” Duh, of course, this ring will only be good for ten years, just like a mattress.

She’s too caught up in herself, I swear it’s like she hasn’t heard a word I’ve said.

“You don’t get to make all the decisions in our relationship,” I say, knowing it doesn’t matter what I say, Tracy’s not going to let me make any decisions, at least not for the foreseeable future. I am going to marry a monster. Have I been blind to her behavior, or has she morphed into this . . . this thing, overnight?

“Of course not, sweetie,” she says, coming over to me and running her hand down my cheek. “We have an equal partnership.”

I swear I hear her chuckle, and then she walks into the bedroom.

I’ll go in there eventually. I really hope she’ll have fallen asleep by then, but it won’t surprise me if she’s still sitting there, naked, just waiting for me, perched on the end of the bed, legs crossed.

I bet she’s feeling the pressure. All of her friends are married and have kids and live in neighborhoods similar to the Moores’. She got jealous. She got needy. She decided the only right answer was hers. And so here we are. She’s trying to turn me into the man of not only her dreams, but every woman’s, and I’m struggling to figure out what the hell to do, or at least, what to tell Kate in the morning when she asks how dinner was.

Answers aren’t going to come tonight, so I turn on the TV and flop down on the couch. Before long, I fall asleep.

“Ahhhh,” I yelp, jumping off the couch as a glass of ice water is poured over my head.

Sweet Tracy has been replaced by Angry Tracy. Suddenly I wonder if she’s pregnant or has a brain tumor. This is not the Tracy I’ve loved for the past five years—not even remotely.

“I didn’t want you to be late for work,” she says with a flair. She’s dressed for work. She looks hot, all the better to sell merchandise to hot guys with similarly angry wives and girlfriends.

I follow her into the kitchen, where she’s pouring herself a cup of coffee. Ice cubes and water fall off me as I walk.

“Want some?” she asks, holding the pot.

“Only if it goes in a mug and not on me.”

“Don’t be silly. That could cause permanent damage.”

“Okay, Tracy,” I say, as she hands me a mug of coffee that I cautiously take from her. “What’s going on? Are you okay? Are you dying? What?”

“Oh, me? I’m awesome. It’s you I’m worried about.”

“Why are you worried about me?” I ask.

She smiles a devilish and knowing smirk. “You thought I wouldn’t find out, didn’t you?”

“Find out about what?”

“Your fling. Your girlfriend. You know, the one that lives uptown?”

I say nothing. Her sudden change in behavior has been partially explained. She knows about Beth. Presumably she doesn’t know Beth is the sister of someone I think may have killed her daughter. The next logical step for Tracy to take at this very moment is to kill me. She’s even the one listed as the beneficiary for my pension.

I shake myself out of my reverie and focus back on Tracy, who is possibly choosing the best weapon for my murder at this very moment.

“What? I’m not.”

I’m not what? I’m not making sense.

“I mean, I don’t have a girlfriend.”

“Save it, Ryan. I had you followed. Your girlfriend doesn’t like to shut the blinds. An exhibitionist—I like that.”

I don’t even remember whether the blinds were open or closed. I guess I was too focused on whether or not her husband was going to come home.

“Who is she? A murder suspect or something?” she asks with sarcasm. I try to stay quiet, but I nearly choke on a sip of coffee.

“Oh my God,” Tracy continues, about to flip out, “is she a murder suspect, Ryan? What the fuck? That’s so sick.”

“No. Not really,” I say, digging a deeper and deeper hole, yet somehow, I can’t stop myself from talking. “No, Tracy. She’s not a murder suspect.”

“So what is she?” she asks, her eyes boring into my soul to suss out the truth.

“She’s . . . it’s complicated. But she’s not a suspect in any murders. I promise.”

She laughs again. “Like I’m going to believe your promises.”

I look at my watch. I really need to get to work, but I can’t leave until this is dealt with. Not that it can really be fully handled now—or ever, most likely—but I can’t walk out at this moment.

“You’re not going to tell my boss, are you?”

“I don’t want to do that.”

“So what do you want?” I ask, confused. “Why didn’t you just break up with me, instead of that ridiculous stunt at the restaurant.”

“Because now I can have everything I’ve ever wanted.”

“You’ve always wanted a husband who cheats on you?” I ask, regretting the words the moment they come out of my mouth.

“I don’t really give a fuck if you cheat on me, as long as you don’t give me any STDs.”

“So what is it that you want, then?”

“To get married. To have the wedding of my dreams, the house of my dreams, a few kids. You. I want you.”

“And if I break up with you?”

I phrase it like a question, even though it’s really not one, since I’m pretty sure I already know the