Sick Girl (A Psychological Thriller) Read online

  “Yeah,” he says. “Took me ten minutes to bolt down a sandwich before I picked you up.”

  “Your boss won’t like you taking fifty-minute lunches.”

  “He understands.”

  I doubt that. Tom’s a software engineer. If his supervisor thinks he’s had one too many long breaks, we’re screwed. Losing his job would be catastrophic because I need the health insurance. The tech community isn’t forgiving, and Tom’s always taken things for granted.

  When my career was booming, I encouraged Tom to buy himself nice things. And he did. The extra expense wasn’t a big deal while I was raking in cash, but we’re not doing so well anymore. I’ll have to rein in his fancies even though it saddles me with crippling guilt. I want him to have things.

  “I’ll take an Uber next time,” I say. “Finding parking is always a pain.”

  “Really, I don’t mind. I’m where I need to be.” A smile hitches on his face as his fingers tiptoe down my thighs, spreading heat over my skin.

  I grab him before he can stroke the sensitive patch between my legs. “Tom.”

  “What? You’re sexy in those tight leggings.” He grasps my chin, brushing his lips against mine. “It’s been so long.”

  I wait for an answering rush of blood, something to prove I’m still alive, but this damned illness takes everything away. Cancer is a hurricane, leaving nothing but devastation and pain in its path. I can’t feel anymore. Anxiety numbs the swell of passion that used to rise inside me. Joy, desire, excitement—they’re all gone. He kisses me, and I close my eyes, willing myself to experience something other than dread. Feel, damn it.

  I try. I trace his collarbone. Roll my palms over his chest. I’m lucky to have him—so lucky. He grinds his mouth against mine, and all I feel is the roughness of his beard against my chin.

  Tom pulls back, eyes softened. “Sorry.”

  “No, I’m sorry.” He’s not the one who should apologize. “I’m not myself. It’s not you, babe. I swear to God it isn’t.”

  “I know,” he says.

  Does he? How often does he long for the days when I wanted him?

  Tom wraps his arm around my shoulder, pulling me into his chest to stroke my head. “I love you.”

  “I love you, too.”

  I used to mean those words with every fiber of my being. They resonated through my soul. I could reach down and find a well of affection for him. It’s there, I think. Buried under the constant roar pounding through my brain, the question keeping me up at night.

  If the cancer was gone, would I still love him?

  I can’t let myself answer. The weight of this disease crushes everything, and my heart is dust.

  3

  Aubrey

  Melissa’s ponytail swings from side to side like a pendulum. I count the seconds I have until she’s out the door. Five, maybe six.

  My knees pop as I struggle to my feet and follow her. Ear to the phone, she’s oblivious. Women like her always are. They don’t notice the little people scurrying around them.

  She halts as a loud group gathers in front of the exit. Nearly there, I shove the rolled mat on the pile beside the weights.

  “Au-brey!” a singsong voice exclaims, stopping me in my tracks.

  Lucy bounces on her soles. “Come here! Just wanna chat for a sec.”

  Another pep talk? “I don’t have time, sorry.”

  Her smile widens. “It’ll only take a minute.”

  I glance at Melissa, who makes a lazy circle around the studio, the rose-gold iPhone mashed against her cheek. My cell is two generations removed, and a horrible crack runs down the screen. Melissa’s is pristine. She swipes it with a finger painted in brilliant teal.

  I envy her. Every detail about Melissa is perfect: her manicured fingertips, the Nike soles, and even the way her golden skin complements the pink of her iPhone. I listen to her frustrated sighs and try to muster the courage to strike up a conversation.

  Planning her murder was easy. Going through with it? Not so much.

  It’s natural to feel close to Melissa. I’ve followed her for weeks and studied her schedule. Spent hours waiting outside buildings. All that time following Tom’s wife gave me insight into that blonde head. I fucking know her. She’s not just some rich bitch I need to take out—she’s the mother of his kids. A good person who is in my damn way.

  Lucy blocks my stare. I want to smack the smile off her face. “What is it?”

  She doesn’t flinch. “Hon, I wanted to ask if everything was all right. I’ve noticed you having issues with some of the more difficult poses.”

  Yeah, I have cancer. “I’m doing my best.”

  “I understand that, sweetie, but I’m wondering if you’re a good fit for this program. Perhaps you’d be more comfortable in Beginner Yoga. Or you could...take a break.”

  “You mean stop coming?”

  She looks grateful that I mentioned it. “This course is too advanced for you.”

  “No, it’s not.”

  Her laughter is like wind chimes—hollow. “I’m afraid I disagree, and I will not spend any more time helping you catch up.”

  She’ll kick me out because I can’t balance on my head for ten seconds? “I paid for the class. It’s important to me.” I blink rapidly, laying it on thick. “To be honest, this is the one day of my week when I feel good.”

  “I’m so happy to hear that!” Lucy bursts. Her voice carries to where Melissa is still engaged in her phone conversation. “But I think it’d be better if you joined the beginner’s group.”

  “For you, maybe, but I am not going anywhere.”

  “As instructor, it’s my job to make sure everyone is at ease. And I’ve received complaints.”

  “Is my outfit not up to code? Does this class have a Lululemon requirement?”

  She sneers. “Your presence is a distraction. Some of the girls aren’t comfortable around you.”

  “I’m not following. Did I do something wrong?”

  “No, it’s nothing like that.” Chewing her lip, she pauses for a second. “They’re concerned about your health.”

  “Don’t these women want to be thin?”

  “Of course—everybody wants that—but I’m getting daily comments from women in the class who are worried.”

  “If they’re so upset, why haven’t they told me themselves?”

  It’s wonderful to watch Lucy struggle with these dilemmas. She chews her lipstick and lets out a frustrated sigh as though I’m being unreasonably difficult. Behind Lucy, Melissa pulls the phone from her ear, her features frozen in disgust.

  She turns it off and marches toward us. “What’s going on?”

  For a second I’m paralyzed.

  We’ve never talked, but I’ve imagined her voice. Thought it’d be delicate, feminine, like the gold necklaces dangling from her neck.

  Lucy beams at Melissa. “Oh, it’s nothing to worry about.”

  Melissa crosses her arms. “I must have heard wrong. You said she couldn’t come anymore, right?”

  Delicate? She’s a whip.

  “I think another group would be a better fit for Aubrey.” Lucy’s positive energy seems manic now. “There were concerns voiced by several of your classmates.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I hate to bring this up, but last class someone was triggered by Aubrey’s appearance.” Lucy faces me, her voice hushed. “A few of the girls have eating disorders.”

  “Triggered,” Melissa repeats.

  “People who’ve experienced traumatic events can relive them when they see or hear—”

  “—I know what it means. So what happened? A girl ate a donut and vomited it up?”

  “It’s not a joke, Miss Daughtry. And a person in Aubrey’s condition”—a pin could drop in the damn studio—“should not be exercising anyway.”

  Bright patches of fury burn on Melissa’s cheeks. “What the hell did you say?”

  “Okay,” Lucy says, wide-eyed. “There’s no need for p
rofanity.”

  “Don’t take it personally,” I mutter to Melissa. “She doesn’t understand.”

  “Yes, I do!” Lucy bursts. “I have a BA in Nutrition. This is what I do. I recognize signs of eating disorders.”

  Flames stroke Melissa’s face in vibrant red. “She doesn’t have a disorder. She has cancer.”

  The air in the studio disappears as though it was torched by Melissa’s rage.

  For a second Lucy stares at her in disbelief, shock blossoming over her face. “Oh...I-I didn’t know. I’m sorry.”

  Melissa crosses her arms. “Why are you apologizing to me?”

  I bury my smile as Lucy turns to me, shamefaced. “Sorry.”

  A frustrated sigh hits the air as Melissa gives Lucy one last look of deep disgust before sweeping from the studio.

  I follow her into the damp locker room, my words caught in my throat. “Thank you.”

  But I still need to murder you.

  Melissa nods, ripping open a locker to grab her white Coach purse. “You’re in the Thursday group.”

  She’s talking about our Meetup for people with end-stage cancer. “Yeah.”

  “Lucy was way out of line. I know what it’s like to be told to eat more.” She lets out an angry sound. “As if that’ll help.”

  I’m in love with her lilting voice. “Thanks again.” I retrieve my bag. “I owe you a coffee. The look on her face...that was priceless.”

  A cool fog descends over Melissa. She stiffens. “I was on my way to Starbucks.”

  “Perfect. I’ll treat you.”

  A second passes before she speaks again. “You don’t have to.”

  “I want to.”

  She cracks under my beam. “Okay.”

  The locker door slams shut. Melissa shoulders the purse, the straps digging into her bone. Giving me a nod, she heads out.

  God, this is it.

  My heart clenches as I follow her into the gym, which reeks of the sharp scent of unwashed bodies. Every step closer to those gleaming doors jolts into my chest.

  I’m going to do this.

  Melissa glances at me. “You okay?”

  “I’m still shocked, I guess.”

  “Don’t let her get to you,” she says in a firm voice. “My doctors are always trying to tell me what I can and can’t do. It doesn’t bother me because they’re paid to give me their professional opinion. But Lucy can go fuck herself.”

  “Yeah, it grates on you after a while.” I clutch the bottle in my purse, silencing the rattle. My supplier charged me a premium for the nitro. I could hardly afford a few doses, but one or two will suffice. He was clear about that. Two pills. A quick death.

  Melissa holds the door open for me, and we stroll into a dense chill that freezes my damp clothes against my skin.

  “I’m a Starbucks slave through and through,” she says with a sigh. “When I first moved here I tried all the local businesses but kept coming back here.”

  The Starbucks next door is packed to the gills with tech employees working from home. They look the same with their identical laptops, their wan faces lit by the screens. Glowing apple icons fill the store with soft light. Melissa works in tech. I looked her up ages ago and examined her LinkedIn, feeling more diminished as I read each line. CEO of Mission Digital. Harvard MBA graduate. Two kids.

  I understand why Tom married her. Looking at her, you’d think she had success written in her DNA. Natural blonde. Fine-boned features. Wide shoulders. She’s at least a C cup—or she would be if she weren’t sick. By all appearances, she won the genetic lottery.

  Then maybe one day, she finally had the persistent ache in her stomach checked. The blood work wasn’t alarming, but the doctor ordered an MRI, and then a biopsy of the suspicious lumps. Her doctor called. Told her to come in. He broke the news to her in his office, a box of tissues within arm’s reach. Turned out, she had a year or two left. That’s how it went for me.

  The café is packed, but the line is short. I never enjoyed the smell of roasting coffee. Over the years, my taste buds have died, and I can tolerate the bitterness without screwing up my face in disgust. Now I pretend to be into pumpkin-spice lattes every fall. It’s the trendy thing to do.

  Melissa excuses herself to the bathroom. “Oh, and I’ll have a tall non-fat latte.”

  Of course she will. “Sure. How many sugars?”

  “Two stevia,” she says with a swish of her blonde ponytail.

  She whisks away as I place the order. An employee dressed in a green smock hands me the drink. I touch the sides and burn my fingers. Ignoring the pain, I carry it to the sugar and milk station, popping open the lid. A flurry of activity surrounds me. Not one person would suspect anything suspicious.

  My hand dives into my purse, searching for the bottle. I rifle through countless receipts, lipstick tubes, and business cards before my fingers touch plastic.

  Is it murder if I kill someone who’s already dying?

  Carefully, I press the lid. It twists open. I shake the two pills into my palm and break them.

  Is anyone watching me?

  Fear is like a thousand needles pricking my exposed skin. I expect a man to glance over my shoulder and shout for the police. The guy pouring a diabetic coma’s worth of sugar into his coffee won’t leave. Someone must notice my wide eyes, the sweat running down my neck, but no. Behind me, they’re all focused on their smartphones and laptops. I could have bombs strapped to my chest, and they wouldn’t flinch.

  Just to be safe, I palm a couple packets of that stevia crap and shake their contents into the cup as I pour the nitroglycerin tablets inside. The white powder sinks into the foamy latte, and I give it a quick stir. Then I replace the lid.

  It’s done.

  All I have to do is pass the drink, watch the liquid slide down her throat, feign distress when her heart stops working, and try not to hate myself for the rest of my life.

  My hands wrapped around the scorching cardboard, I carry it to an empty table. Steam rises from the small hole.

  I tense as Melissa’s golden figure emerges from the bathroom. Her blonde head swivels, and she finds me. Without smiling, Melissa makes a beeline for me and sits, grabbing the cup. “Thanks. You didn’t get anything?”

  Am I crazy or do I hear a note of suspicion? “Caffeine is too harsh on my stomach. I had to stop drinking it months ago.”

  She gives me a grim smile. “I don’t tolerate it much either, but I can’t stand taking away one more thing for this disease.”

  Drink it. “I have nothing left to give up.”

  “Yoga,” she says, lips touching the rim. “Why did you join?”

  I shrug. “It’s meditative. My doctor tells me I need more hobbies to take my mind off the fact I’m dying. Maybe I should play chess instead.”

  She laughs, tipping the cup.

  I hold my breath. This is the moment that’ll change my life forever. I’ll move into his house. Her children will call me Mom. Tom and I will be together. I won’t be alone anymore.

  An ear-splitting ring crashes the silence.

  Melissa pulls back with a curse, coffee dripping down her lips. “Damn it.” She snatches the shrieking phone in her purse and frowns at the name.

  His face fills the screen. Tom.

  The air squeezes from my lungs.

  She answers the call with a scowl. “I’m inside. Having a cup of—fine. Fine, I’ll be right there.” Stabbing the phone, she ends the call. “I have to go. My husband is looking for me.”

  “I understand.” I force a smile as a tall man appears behind the glass, his handsome features recognizable from this distance.

  A jolt slams into my chest as his gaze sweeps over the café. If he sees me with his wife, he’ll know I had something to do with it. Tom will never forgive me.

  She can’t die. Not now.

  Melissa reaches with a smooth arm as I lunge, spilling twelve ounces of boiling coffee. She jumps backward, narrowly avoiding the splash that soaks into a tech br
o’s backpack.

  Indignant, he rips out his earphones and glares at me. “Dude.”

  Melissa gapes at her brown shoes. “Damn it!”

  A Starbucks employee hurries to the table as I stammer an apology. A wave of despair crashes into me as I meet Melissa’s widened gaze. Five minutes ago we were joking. Now she looks at me like I’m an idiot.

  The bell tinkles as Tom walks inside. He can’t see me with her.

  “Where are you going?” The tech bro stands beside an indignant Melissa, who watches me flee into the restroom.

  In the bathroom, I find a stall and slam the door. My T-shirt flutters with my heartbeat.

  Did he recognize me?

  If he did, the only good thing in my life is gone.

  I grab the phone from my pocket, swiping it open. I expect a text from him telling me it’s over. That he warned me. His wife was off-limits, and I went too far.

  I stare at the cracked Messages screen for several minutes. My lips go numb with the effort of keeping my scream inside because if he ends us, my world ends. The light in my universe ceases to exist. I can’t live without sunshine.

  No texts from him.

  Maybe he didn’t see me. Or perhaps he’s waiting until he can slip from his wife and ask me, What the hell?

  I blink away the mist, the hard plastic digging into my palm as I squeeze and grit my teeth. He’s the only thing going for me, and I probably lost him. She’ll describe me to Tom. He’ll know.

  What am I supposed to do?

  4

  Melissa

  Tom was supposed to be here an hour ago. It’s been way longer than that, and my patience is whittled to a thread. I’m tired of his disappearing act—leaving me with the kids at a moment’s notice while I’m stuck at home. After a week of watching the kids nonstop, the last thing I want is more time in the house.

  My skin is cracked and raw from hours of kneading dough. An ache pounds between my temples and through my lower back, but I ignore it. I’ll sit when I get this damned pie crust to flatten.

  A beige mound sits on a dusty white countertop. I reshape it, sprinkling the rolling pin with more flour and try again, pressing down and forward. The ball oozes outward.