1
LONDON, 2008
It’s the sound of my husband’s blood on the floorboards that wakes me.
Like a dripping faucet.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
Soft little splashes on the bedroom floor.
I stand over our bed, and I look at him, looking at me, and I think of the day we moved in.
I don’t know why it comes to me, then, but it does: the two of us aching and dripping with sweat.
We christened this bed. We made it ours. And when I peeled my body from his, he stared at me, dazed and gasping—stunned by the force of my love.
He’s looking at me in the same way, now.
Later, I will be asked about this moment: if I saw the body, if I looked. I’ll tell them I couldn’t, of course. That I shielded my eyes, and ran to find help.
But I don’t. I stand over him, watching. The only sound is the tapping, and my—only my—breath.
He’s quite clearly dead: perfectly still, his lips cracked and gray. And in his throat, the knife—my knife, a wedding gift—is angled sharply, like a conquering flag.
I stand over him, and try to piece together a story that makes sense. An explanation.
I remember words exchanged in the kitchen. A woman’s perfume on his skin. The bloody slick of wine around a glass, sediment clinging to the base. His footsteps, leaving me behind.
And after that: nothing.
Only an absence, a blur.
Now, I look at the face of the man I once loved, his pale body cooling in the predawn light.
And I do not feel a thing.
2
“I don’t remember,” I say, in a voice that’s hoarse from screaming—another thing I can’t recall.
“I heard a tapping noise. Like this.” I tap-tap-tap on the metal desk. The strip light flickers overhead. “More of … more of a drip. And then I opened my eyes.”
The officers questioning me—a man and a woman, both fresh-faced and focused—nod.
They don’t believe me. And I can’t say I blame them. I’m not sure I’d believe me, if our roles were reversed.
“I was on the floor,” I go on. Evie, our daughter—my daughter—shivers in her sleep, her head resting on my lap, body stretched across the bed I’ve built with empty chairs. I run a finger through her curls, the way he used to do with mine. “I must’ve hit my head. I was dizzy. But I got up, and…” I close my eyes, hoping they’ll take the hint.
He was dead, I want to say. You know that part.
But I can’t. Not in front of Evie. I need to protect her from that, for the moment at least.
I’m asked to sign my statement, which they’ve typed it in on my behalf. I found the victim to be clearly deceased, via a single stab wound to his carotid artery. There’s something soothing about the medical wording—the bare facts of it. Still, I correct it. “I didn’t know it was … the artery. Won’t that be for the coroner to … You know?”
The male officer smiles. “My fault. I thought you were a doctor, so…” I know what he’s saying. So you’d know where to stick the knife.
“I’m a psychiatrist,” I say. Not that it makes a difference: I still went to medical school; still know the basics of anatomy. But I’m not sure he knows that.
He nods, eyebrow raised. “Noted. Sign here.”
* * *
After eleven hours, they let me go. They don’t say it, but I know: this is conditional. A one-way flight to Barbados, right now, would all but confirm my guilt.
I check us into a nearby hotel, where I see myself for the first time in the greenish bathroom light.
I’m surprised at my own expression—at the blankness of it. As though I’m expecting to find myself mid-scream, rigid as a Halloween mask. But aside from the faint sheen of filth on my skin, the clot of dried blood at the back of my head, I’m still very much myself. This is not something I expect to work in my favor.
I imagine conversations taking place at the police station. Not exactly a looker, I think they’ll say. A bit mismatched, weren’t they?
Or: She’s not very friendly. Closed-off. Like she’s hiding something.
I can’t dispute any of this. They’ll think it, because it’s true.
Still, I shower off the day, and crawl into bed with Evie. I smell home on her skin, and pull her close.
People say motherhood brings it out in you: a need to protect your child that verges on madness.
Only now do I realize it’s true.
Copyright © 2021 by Katie Lowe
