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

me, Margaret, it’s you. What have you done to us? Huh? What the fuck have you done to us?”

“What if I didn’t do it? Do you ever think about that?”

“Then the police will find that out.”

I manage an angry laugh. “You think the police always find the truth. Are you that stupid?”

“It was worth the risk. Lana was my everything, and my soul tells me you took her from me. The moment I thought that, I didn’t care what happened to you. I made the best decision for me. The best decision for Lana. To say that I really care what happens to you would be a lie.”

Suddenly he’s not crying, but I can’t stop. If he has no faith in me, then what chance do I have? It hurts my heart to think that he doesn’t believe me, to think he could believe I killed our daughter, my own flesh and blood. Sure, things with Lana didn’t exactly turn out like I wanted, but that doesn’t mean I killed her.

I just wanted her to stay in the area. Settle down with a nice man. Have a family. I could be the doting grandma I always thought I would be. Things would be happy, normal, perfect. Lana ruined it all by moving away, and even though she came back, she was starting to pull away again. And in doing so, she clearly got herself into some kind of trouble that she felt she couldn’t tell me and Dave about.

Dave gets up and continues his walk up the stairs. This conversation doesn’t feel finished, however, and I can’t just let him walk away from me. Not after saying those things. Not after accusing me of murder.

“Where the fuck do you think you’re going?” I say softly, not moving from my position on the floor.

“To grab some things. Then I’ll head to a hotel and be out of your way. We can sort the rest out later. Not that my whereabouts are really any of your business.”

“We need to finish our conversation,” I say.

“What more is there to say? Someone killed our daughter, and I’m terrified it’s you.”

I plant my hands on the floor and push myself all the way up, struggling to gain and maintain my balance the entire time. My legs manage to carry me to the base of the stairs. I grab onto the railing to steady myself, then I traverse one step at a time until I am just one away from Dave. He towers over me, but I somehow feel comfortable in his shadow.

I reach out to touch his arm, but he swats me away like a bug.

“Don’t touch me, Margaret. Don’t talk to me. Don’t even come near me.”

For some reason, I have this sudden urge to convince Dave that I didn’t kill Lana. It’s hurting me that he thinks I could have done such a thing. I grab at his hand, and he swiftly turns around and grabs my wrist tightly. It takes me by surprise and I lose my balance, but I use my free hand to claw at the wall just enough to steady myself.

“How about we just end this now?” Dave prods me.

“What do you mean?”

“You killed Lana, so I’m gonna kill you.”

I chuckle. Sweet, innocent Dave isn’t going to kill me. Of all the ridiculous things to say.

My laugh must make him mad because he grabs my throat. I am even more surprised by this turn of events. Panic fills me. I don’t really want to die. Though I realize I don’t have a whole lot to live for, dying seems extreme.

My instincts kick in after just a moment and I start fighting with everything I have in me. I try pushing on his chest, but Dave is stronger and bigger than me, and I’m getting nowhere fast. It doesn’t help that we are on the stairs and both of us are struggling to maintain our balance and not tumble down, possibly leading both of us to an ironic and untimely demise. Maybe that’s exactly the end we deserve, turned against each other by our actions.

I suddenly recall that I’d intended to confront Dave today, and out of fear for my well-being, I figured I should have a plan to protect myself should the need arise. Dave, like just about every other human being to walk the face of the earth, has a defensive streak. I had expected him to do something unexpected. I’d gone over all the scenarios I could think of, everything from him packing a bag and leaving, to calling me names, to trying to kill me. (Telling me about his mistress was a surprise, but it’s only thrown me off by a negligible amount.) In preparation for any threat to my life, I’d hidden a knife in my pocket.

It’s not like we have a lot of murder-worthy knives lying around our kitchen. In fact, most of our cooking knives are dull as hell. Dave keeps saying he’ll sharpen them, and then he gets distracted. If I tried to do it, he’d just criticize my efforts.

I’m hoping the dull knife in my pocket is sharp enough to do the job. I reach in and fish around for it. My panic grows as I can’t find it. Finally I check my other pocket and pull it out. I’m hot and gasping for air. I know I need to do this soon or I won’t be able to take action of any kind.

I hesitate for a moment. Sure, I knew I might have to kill Dave; clearly, that’s why I have a knife in my pocket. But I don’t want to kill my husband. I loved him and he loved me, and then everything changed. Why did things have to turn out this way? When we were young and dumb we just went for it and thought everything would work out. Apparently we were wrong. I am a lot of things, but a killer is not one of them.

Dave sees