“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he gasped as he lowered her head to the floor. “I’m really sorry.”
He stared into her lying eyes one last time then used his fingers to push down her eye lids.
“You made me do it,” he muttered as he climbed to his feet to stare down at her. After a minute he shook his head and took a deep breath. No time to stand around, he had work to do.
First, her computer. That’s where all the trouble had started. He’d noticed the change in her, how eager she was to turn it on every day, heard the frantic typing, seen the secret smiles. She’d tried to keep him out, changed her password, but he knew her too well. And he’d seen the messages.
The early lightly flirtatious exchanges. Their chats about books and movies, how amazing that they had the same tastes. Trying to stump each other with music lyrics, and most damning of all, her summation of their relationship.
“I’m just out of a relationship,” she’d written. “Just looking for a friend to talk to. We’re living together but only as friends, still it’s tense at times. It’s so nice to have someone to talk to.”
He’d scoffed at that. Someone to talk to? What was he? And she never wanted to talk to him. Her lies were stacking up. Then the phone calls had started. He would hear the murmur of her voice, the soft laughter, through her closed door. It was too much, the final betrayal.
Now, he had to decide what to do. He could make her disappear. Pack her bags, tell everyone she’d left him. But she had so much stuff to deal with, a panoply of shoes to start with. Though if he just packed up a few things, say she went away for the weekend then never came back. He would be the confused, hurt, left behind lover, waiting for her return.
Of course, there was her body to deal with. Chemicals could do the job. Or there was that pig farm he’d read about. So much risk though.
Better, he thought, to stage a robbery. Take her computer, jewellery, the television. Break a window in the back then go out with some friends. Make sure at least one of them came home with him for the moment of discovery.
He took a few minutes to get ready then he trashed the place. Pulled things out of drawers, smashed a bottle of her perfume, shoved her valuables into the Emily Strange backpack she loved. He went to his room, picked up the watch she’d given him and strapped it to his wrist. His mp3 player and ipad went into the backpack. At least they had insurance. The television and the xbox went into the trunk of his car, along with the backpack and the laptop computers. Hers and his. Then he went outside, smashed a window, and broke a pot plant.
Back inside he looked down at her, looking so perfect laying there.
“I’m sorry,” he said again. “But it was your fault. You should never have lied about us, never have tried to leave me.”
Clutched in her hand, her cell phone rang and he crouched down to read the screen.
Incoming call from S
He smiled at that, because it was so perfect. S, whoever he was, would now be her last known contact. With a bit of luck, he wouldn’t have an alibi. And a string of calls and messages might make him seem suspicious. Especially if it was suggested that someone had been harassing her, calling her constantly.
He would be the worried friend, the concerned house mate. “So sad,” he’d say, “she thought he loved her.”