It’s been five months since I met Olivia at the bookstore. In that time, we have grown to be great friends. Who am I kidding? Lovers. She knows all about me, and I want to believe I know all about her. But she was right. We all have secrets.
I’m sitting at the far end of the bar, tucked into the booth furthest from the door. The little bell above the entrance jingles as it swings open. My head snaps up—maybe it’s Olivia. A flicker of hope. But no. Someone else.
I take a slow sip of my beer, barely tasting it, and check my watch again. Thirty minutes late. No answer to my calls. That’s not like her. Not even close... She’s never late. And when she is, she always texts.
Something’s off.
A crash erupts from the other end of the bar. I flinch. A group of men — truckers, maybe carpenters — have clearly had too much. One of them missteps and slams into the floor. The sound is heavy, final. For a second, no one moves. Then the laughter comes — loud, rough, spilling over itself. A few minutes later, they’re already calling for more drinks, voices rising, slurred and insistent, like they haven’t hit their limit, or like they don’t have one.
I glance toward their table. Bad idea, James! One of them is watching me. He doesn’t laugh, and doesn’t move much either. Sober. Or close enough? Our eyes lock, and he holds it... way too long, before finally lifting his glass and taking a slow sip.
I look away. The bell above the door jingles again. My chest tightens.
Please, please, be her. If it’s not… I’m going out to find her.
I feel a sense of relief as Olivia’s eyes meet mine. She knows this is my favorite booth, so she doesn’t waste time walking over to me.
“Hey, darling,” I say to her with a smile. I had been looking forward to seeing her all evening as she said she had something important to tell me. She doesn’t respond. She takes off her jacket and folds it before setting it on the empty chair to her right. She has creases on her forehead. Olivia never has creases unless she is scared or worried.
“Hey, hey… What’s wrong?”
She looks around: her hands are shaking, like it’s the dead of winter, and she has no gloves on. I scoot closer to her and take her hands in mine.
“Olivia… hey. Talk to me. What’s going on? Are you being followed?”
My eyes sweep the room, sharp, searching—corners, door, faces. Anyone watching. Anyone waiting. I start to mention calling the police.
Her hand clamps down on mine. Hard.
“Don’t,” she says, locking onto my eyes. There’s something there—fear, sharp and immediate. Too real.
She takes a shaky breath. Then another. Time stretches. The noise of the bar fades into the background as she fights to steady herself. Minutes pass before her grip loosens, just a little. Her breathing slows. But her eyes… they are different. The shock is still there. Unmoved.
“Whisky,” she mutters. A pause. “Double.”
I signal the bartender for a glass of her favorite, Caperdonich. When the waiter brings it over, she picks up the glass and empties it.
“I had to kill her,” she says.
My heart skips a beat. I think this is a joke, or maybe I didn’t hear her right.
“Did you say kill?! Who?”
“Keep your voice down!” She looks around to check if anyone has possibly heard us. She is calmer now; maybe the whisky was all she needed to wash off the shock. When she looks into my eyes, I see a side to Olivia that I hadn’t known before.
“Who did you have to kill?” I whisper, a part of me still quietly hoping I heard kill wrong.
“Your Ida Berg, of course. Who else?” Olivia whispers back while rubbing her eyelids with her thumbs.
“What happened? Why?” I can barely speak. My head is light and feels like it has been plunged underwater.
“Because she knows, James.” Olivia’s eyes are stern. They are saying one thing and one thing only: I could not let her live.
I stare at her mouth moving, but I can’t hear anything she says until there is more boisterous laughter from the table at the other end of the room. I instinctively look that way and meet the man’s eyes once again. He seems disappointed that I am sitting so close to a beautiful woman.
“James,” I feel Olivia’s palm on my face, calling me back to what she said. “There was no other way…”
I grab my beer and drink it all at once to numb the following question that will come out of my mouth: “How did you kill her?”
“It’s complicated… At first, I drugged her,” Olivia explains in a way that is so calm and matter-of-fact, that it makes me question if she has done this before. “Then I burned her hands…”
“Fuck, Olivia.” I feel my throat getting dry. I yell. “Burned her hands?! What the fuck?”
She looks around to check if anyone is eavesdropping. Thankfully, the music playing in the bar is enough to drown out our conversation.
“Because they touched you… Because they wanted you… Don’t worry, James, I took care of everything. I’ll give you a perfect alibi as your girlfriend, Charlotte Block. Let’s say we spent the night together. I was here all the time, and then we had sex until morning. Okay?”
“Who is Charlotte Block?”
“Me. Olivia is my middle name.” She orders one more drink and continues, “And the old bitch had it coming anyway, James. She kept snooping around where she wasn’t supposed to. I told her to leave me alone, but she didn’t listen. She dug and dug and dug for more dirt!” She cups my cheeks in her cold palms and leans in closer. “Look at me, James Pascus. No one’s going to find out what we did. Trust me.”
Despite what she was saying, she still smells like lavender. Pure. Harmless.
CHAPTER 11. JAMES
It’s been five months since I met Olivia at the bookstore. In that time, we have grown to be great friends. Who am I kidding? Lovers. She knows all about me, and I want to believe I know all about her. But she was right. We all have secrets.
I’m sitting at the far end of the bar, tucked into the booth furthest from the door. The little bell above the entrance jingles as it swings open. My head snaps up—maybe it’s Olivia. A flicker of hope. But no. Someone else.
I take a slow sip of my beer, barely tasting it, and check my watch again. Thirty minutes late. No answer to my calls. That’s not like her. Not even close... She’s never late. And when she is, she always texts.
Something’s off.
A crash erupts from the other end of the bar. I flinch. A group of men — truckers, maybe carpenters — have clearly had too much. One of them missteps and slams into the floor. The sound is heavy, final. For a second, no one moves. Then the laughter comes — loud, rough, spilling over itself. A few minutes later, they’re already calling for more drinks, voices rising, slurred and insistent, like they haven’t hit their limit, or like they don’t have one.
I glance toward their table. Bad idea, James! One of them is watching me.
He doesn’t laugh, and doesn’t move much either. Sober. Or close enough? Our eyes lock, and he holds it... way too long, before finally lifting his glass and taking a slow sip.
I look away. The bell above the door jingles again. My chest tightens.
Please, please, be her.
If it’s not… I’m going out to find her.
I feel a sense of relief as Olivia’s eyes meet mine. She knows this is my favorite booth, so she doesn’t waste time walking over to me.
“Hey, darling,” I say to her with a smile. I had been looking forward to seeing her all evening as she said she had something important to tell me. She doesn’t respond. She takes off her jacket and folds it before setting it on the empty chair to her right. She has creases on her forehead. Olivia never has creases unless she is scared or worried.
“Hey, hey… What’s wrong?”
She looks around: her hands are shaking, like it’s the dead of winter, and she has no gloves on. I scoot closer to her and take her hands in mine.
“Olivia… hey. Talk to me. What’s going on? Are you being followed?”
My eyes sweep the room, sharp, searching—corners, door, faces. Anyone watching. Anyone waiting. I start to mention calling the police.
Her hand clamps down on mine. Hard.
“Don’t,” she says, locking onto my eyes. There’s something there—fear, sharp and immediate. Too real.
She takes a shaky breath. Then another. Time stretches. The noise of the bar fades into the background as she fights to steady herself. Minutes pass before her grip loosens, just a little. Her breathing slows. But her eyes… they are different. The shock is still there. Unmoved.
“Whisky,” she mutters. A pause. “Double.”
I signal the bartender for a glass of her favorite, Caperdonich. When the waiter brings it over, she picks up the glass and empties it.
“I had to kill her,” she says.
My heart skips a beat. I think this is a joke, or maybe I didn’t hear her right.
“Did you say kill?! Who?”
“Keep your voice down!” She looks around to check if anyone has possibly heard us. She is calmer now; maybe the whisky was all she needed to wash off the shock. When she looks into my eyes, I see a side to Olivia that I hadn’t known before.
“Who did you have to kill?” I whisper, a part of me still quietly hoping I heard kill wrong.
“Your Ida Berg, of course. Who else?” Olivia whispers back while rubbing her eyelids with her thumbs.
“What happened? Why?” I can barely speak. My head is light and feels like it has been plunged underwater.
“Because she knows, James.” Olivia’s eyes are stern. They are saying one thing and one thing only: I could not let her live.
I stare at her mouth moving, but I can’t hear anything she says until there is more boisterous laughter from the table at the other end of the room. I instinctively look that way and meet the man’s eyes once again. He seems disappointed that I am sitting so close to a beautiful woman.
“James,” I feel Olivia’s palm on my face, calling me back to what she said. “There was no other way…”
I grab my beer and drink it all at once to numb the following question that will come out of my mouth: “How did you kill her?”
“It’s complicated… At first, I drugged her,” Olivia explains in a way that is so calm and matter-of-fact, that it makes me question if she has done this before. “Then I burned her hands…”
“Fuck, Olivia.” I feel my throat getting dry. I yell. “Burned her hands?! What the fuck?”
She looks around to check if anyone is eavesdropping. Thankfully, the music playing in the bar is enough to drown out our conversation.
“Because they touched you… Because they wanted you… Don’t worry, James, I took care of everything. I’ll give you a perfect alibi as your girlfriend, Charlotte Block. Let’s say we spent the night together. I was here all the time, and then we had sex until morning. Okay?”
“Who is Charlotte Block?”
“Me. Olivia is my middle name.” She orders one more drink and continues, “And the old bitch had it coming anyway, James. She kept snooping around where she wasn’t supposed to. I told her to leave me alone, but she didn’t listen. She dug and dug and dug for more dirt!” She cups my cheeks in her cold palms and leans in closer. “Look at me, James Pascus. No one’s going to find out what we did. Trust me.”
Despite what she was saying, she still smells like lavender. Pure. Harmless.
“We?” I’m shaking.
“Yes. You and I, silly. Now kiss me…”
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