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After skimming the articles, I set up a Google Alert for any new online postings that mentioned Billie Rae Perkins and/or missing girls. Maybe there would be some breakthrough in this cold case.
I glanced at the time. It was now a quarter to four. Tanya should be home any minute.
Logging out of my computer, I braced myself with a fortifying breath. I thought about barricading myself in my room but couldn’t resist seeing how piss mad she’d be about her missing laptop.
I hopped off the bed and as I headed downstairs, a confident smile formed on my lips.
I was ready for all hell to break loose.
THIRTY-SIX
NATALIE
Matt the Stallion.
The words burned on my brain.
The bourbon burned on my tongue.
And each time I gulped down a glug of the bitter liquor, it burned a fiery trail from my throat to my gut.
These were not nameless, faceless women. They were women I knew. My friends.
Matt had a predilection for blondes and was a leg man. I thought of all the women I knew who fit the bill. Carolyn…Olivia…Gillian…The list went on. How could I face any of them again, knowing they might have slept with my husband? How could I live with the rage and humiliation?
And more insufferably, how could I live with Matt? Share the same bed as him?? I thought our marriage was on the rebound, our sex frequent and fulfilling, but now this. And what was more, I couldn’t stop thinking about his and Alexa’s daughter. What she looked like, what she did, where she lived. And were there others? Only one thing was for sure…
I hated him.
With the bourbon firing me up, I took my rage out on the vegetables I was preparing for dinner. Chopping them with one of our razor-sharp kitchen knives. Chop. Chop. Chop. Chop. Each thrust of the glistening ten-inch blade harder and faster. I felt like one of those Japanese hibachi chefs who put on a dazzling knife show with their lightning-fast chopping skills and astounding juggling tricks.
Knives terrified me. I gripped the handle and stayed laser-focused, not wanting to cut off a finger. But as the bourbon seeped into my bloodstream, my lucidity ebbed and my mind began playing tricks on me. Slicing two plump vine-ripe tomatoes in half, I imagined I was chopping off Matt’s balls. Chop. Chop. And then as I diced a large zucchini, I envisioned Matt’s thick dick. Chop. Chop. Chop…
As I lowered the knife again to the squash, a familiar voice cut into my concentration.
“Hi, Mom. What are you making?”
Paige.
I looked up, not pausing my sinister ministrations, and a sudden sharp pain sliced through my left forefinger. Almost at once, I screamed out in agony, cursed aloud, and glanced down. I’d practically cut off my fingertip. Bright crimson blood was gushing out of the bone-deep gash and pooling on the cutting board.
Paige raced up to me, her face aghast. “Oh my God, Mom! Are you okay?”
“H-honey, get me some paper towels,” I stammered.
She ran to the dispenser and returned to my side with a thick wad.
“Mom, give me your hand.”
My finger throbbing, my hand trembling, she squeezed the paper towels around my digit, applying pressure. Within seconds, the blood saturated the thick white wad. I was getting queasy.
“Mom, hold the paper towel tight around your finger.” With my other hand, I squeezed hard as she dashed back to the sink, this time returning with a checkered dishtowel. Quickly, without flinching, she swapped out the red-soaked paper towel for the more absorbent cloth one.
I flashed back to her childhood and remembered how stoic she was whenever she skinned a knee while partaking in some tomboyish activity. Never shedding a single tear at the bloody mess. Just a dab of Neosporin and a Band-Aid and she was raring to go. So unlike Anabel, who was like Sarah Bernhardt at the slightest scratch. Hysterics. I, like Paige, had been a stoic child, but couldn’t afford not to be. Tears were my enemy. It was better to swipe them away or hide them than have them slapped away.
The excruciating throb in my finger brought me back to the present. The blood from the cut seeped right through the cloth towel. I was growing queasier and queasier.
“Paige, sweetheart, why don’t you get me some Band-Aids from upstairs?”
