You be Me: A Domestic Thriller

  Contents

  Chapters

  1 • 2 • 3 • 4 • 5 • 6 • 7 • 8 • 9 • 10 • 11 • 12 • 13 • 14 • 15 • 16 • 17 • 18 • 19 • 20 • 21 • 22 • 23 • 24 • 25 • 26 • 27 • 28 • 29 • 30 • 31 • 32 • 33 • 34 • 35 • 36 • 37 • 38 • 39 • 40 • 41 • 42 • 43 • 44 • 45 • 46 • 47 • 48 • 49 • 50 • 51 • 52 • 53 • 54 • 55 • 56 • 57 • 58 • 59 • 60 • 61 • 62 • 63 • 64 • 65 • 66 • 67 • 68 • 69 • 70 • 71 • 72 • 73 • 74

  Epilogue

  A Note from the Author

  YOU BE ME

  R.J. Wood

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  YOU BE ME

  Copyright © 2021 by Randall Wood.

  All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  For information contact;

  Tension Bookworks

  248 Nokomis Ave, Venice Fl, 34274

  www.tensionbookworks.com

  and the portrayal of the screw are registered trademarks of Tension Bookworks.

  Book design by JW Manus

  Jacket and Cover design by Steve Richor

  First Edition: December 2021

  Chapter One

  * * *

  “Don’t think for one minute that your thoughts are original, I looked at my mother the same way when I was your age. Every twenty-two-year-old girl thinks she knows more than her parents do and you’re no different. So, you can look at me with all the hate and despair and self-righteous pity you want, it won’t affect me at all. I know better.”

  The rattle of ice cubes was enough to tell me that Emily is interrupting her speech long enough to visit her Bloody Mary. It’s as if the sound is her period on the sentence and, like the drink itself, it’s become a part of her identity. Based on the time I’m guessing it’s her first or maybe second of the morning. She’ll stick with her vodka at lunch, disguised in a juice of some kind, and then it’ll simply be on the rocks once she’s home and no longer has to keep up appearances. I know the pattern well. Just like this speech of hers, it’s her routine, and if I’m not gone before she leaves her bedroom every morning, it’s guaranteed to happen. The only way to avoid the speech altogether now is to leave, which I’m trying desperately to do, but it isn’t going to happen until I find my notes from last night.

  “I’m twenty-four. I’ll be twenty-five next month. And you’re not my mother.”

  She knows this already, but I can’t resist provoking her. I’m careful to say it to the room without turning to face her, which also provokes her.

  My remark prompts a rapid exhale and more cigarette smoke joins the cloud over my head. That’s not an accident either. Sometimes I think she stands in here and chain-smokes while I’m out just because she knows I hate the stench.

  “Well, aren’t we a little smart-ass this morning.”

  Where the hell are my damn notes? Did she hide them just so I’d be a captive audience for another one of her rants? I doubt it, but also wouldn’t put it past her. Her pettiness is well-evolved.

  I can’t help but take a glance out the window to see if Henry’s car is there. Luckily, she doesn’t see me do it, as that would just prompt her to make more snide comments aimed at him. I attack a pile of miscellaneous paper looking for the three sheets I need. They have to be here somewhere; I need to find them before she pushes my buttons too far.

  “I don’t know why you waste your energy. The man isn’t even there half the time, and the time that he is there he fills with nonsense.”

  “It’s his time, he can do with it whatever he wants.”

  “I’m well aware of that as well. He may be your fathers’ brother but he’s certainly not him. Your father knew what was important. He wasn’t suddenly ashamed of money after working downtown for two decades. He didn’t run away and hide in his home, away from the world, and squander it all. He chose to live instead.”

  A slew of replies dance through my head, all of them just what she wants me to say. My stepmother enjoys this, and she’s well-practiced. I have no doubt she was that mean girl in school, the one who leads the pack of other mean girls. All of them protected by their parent’s money or status. Another glance out the window shows me her reflection and the grin she has aimed at my back. I bite off my reply and refuse the bait. But I’m still trapped in the room. Like a mouse who took a wrong turn and is now trapped in a dark alley with a cat, I desperately want to get out. I want to take the B train north to my boyfriend’s hole-in-the-wall two-room apartment and do his laundry while I study. I want to curl up in bed with him and his cat and watch movies until we fall asleep. I want to get out and drive across the bridge with him and visit my uncle in Brooklyn. I want to get out.

  A vision of my uncle Otto enters my mind. His once tall frame now hunched in his favorite chair. The clothes that were once filled with muscle now hanging loosely on his frame. His cane hanging off the worn arm of his recliner and the remote held in a hand you can almost see through. His gaunt face with the cloudy eyes that used to light up whenever I enter the room. “Ah! There’s my little girl!” he would always say.

  He says it a little slower now.

  She’s still talking.

  “Your father didn’t cash out and go home. He didn’t give up on life and become a recluse. No, he lived life right up until the day he left.”

  I find my notes in the printer. Must have left them there when I scanned them and emailed them to Mary. I breathe a sigh of relief and load them into my laptop case. She sees this and knows her grip is lost, so she takes her parting shot.

  “I know you want to get away from me. I know you wish I’d just go to Europe and never come back. Leave you here with that boy and your demented uncle. You want to live with that dreamer of a boyfriend, the one who can’t even afford a decent car much less a proper place to live, then that’s your mistake. You think that old man is going to change anything? He can’t! He’s nothing but a washed-up shell!”

  She’s standing in the door now and blocking my escape, her boney finger pointing at me, its nicotine-stained skin adding to her ugliness. The glass is empty, and the cigarette is nearly gone. I don’t know if it’s the alcohol, the nicotine, or simply her self-righteous anger that makes her shake, and I don’t care. She’s done. Her rage always has an end, and this is it. She knows I won’t argue, not that there’s nothing to argue, but simply because I don’t value her opinion enough to engage. The situation is locked in. My dear father made sure of it, and there’s nothing either one of us can do to change it.

  I stare at her, waiting, daring her to continue, but she’s got nothing left. Watching her open her mouth and then close it while her alcohol-addled brain searches for something more hateful to say is something I’m used to. Finally, she turns and stalks away. I take some small pleasure in her defeat that I know I should be ashamed of.

  But I’m not.

  A horn sounds from outside and she flinches, making her stumble.

  “Get out! Run off with your deadbeat boyfriend! Get out of my house!”

  I’m out the door in seconds, letting it close quietly behind me. A slam would be admitting that she got to me, so I’m careful to deny her that as well. In the hall, I force myself to relax. The tension in my shoulders and back subsides and a dull ache in my neck appears. It’s not the first time. The pain flairs again as I put on my coat. Perhaps Henry can help me with it.

  Henry is here! I force the gloom off my face so I can greet him with a smile. It gets broader as I step outside. The cold air and falling snow are a welcome change. They confirm that I’m no longer inside that house. The house I grew up in and used to adore. The house that’s now become a prison. The house she thinks is hers now. I have two years left on my sentence. But for now, for these next two days, I’m on furlough. I’m free. Free of her and the legal chains that keep me in this house with her.

  And I’m not alone.

  Chapter Two

  * * *

  The car is a Volkswagen . . . something, I forget. The model plate and most of the paint left the car years ago, so there’s no way to be sure. Some of the wheels lack hubcaps, and the rear window has a crack held together with tape, but that only adds to its charm. The little car is a trooper. Its tiny engine rarely fails to start, and its miniature tires cut through the New York snow without complaint. Its appearance saves it from the thieves who pass it over in favor of more lucrative targets. Their efforts would be wasted as anything worth stealing was removed long ago. The slot that once held the radio is now used for cell phones, and the clipboard mounted to the dash with wood screws usually holds the latest script. Despite its small size, the heater works very well. It’s still cute though, in an ugly puppy sort of way.

  Its driver is even cuter, in my opinion. Henry and I have been together for three years now. The question I get most often about him is “Where did you find him?”

  As if they could find a copy of him for themselves if I would just direct them to the right store. I know it’s rhetorical, but still.

  The answer is a common one. I found him in a bar. Three
years ago I was just another student out on the town with friends and enjoying a break from school. One of them suggested a new bar and I got pulled along against my will. Crowded bars are just not my thing. I’ve always been more of an introvert and while I’m not anywhere near anti-social, I can only take a noisy crowd every once in a while. But that night I’m glad I did.

  I remember the three of us worming our way through the crowd and finding a table to stand at about midway through. The girls raced to take their coats off and then had a mock battle over who would go to the bar and get drinks. I didn’t understand why until I saw the bartender they were angling for.

  It’s a cliché, but it was the eyes that caught my attention first. Blue and deep and happy. Henry worked the bar and the crowd with a grin and a kind word for everyone. Despite how busy it was he seemed to have time for everyone and nobody seemed impatient to get their drinks. He greeted people by name and learned new ones with ease. That was the second thing I remember; his way with people. He took the extra second to meet people, shaking their hands and asking their names, often cocking his head and leaning in to make sure he heard them right. And it wasn’t just to get the girls to lean in also and give him a display of cleavage, as some did. I watched his eyes, and he gave himself away. He wasn’t looking down their dresses, but rather at the floor while whispering the information back to himself. And that made me smile. I watched him long enough to see him make second rounds for people without having to be reminded.

  “His name’s Henry,” Mary yelled into my ear.

  I jumped and she grinned at me. I’d been caught looking. I didn’t even see her return.

  “See something you like, Ally?”

  “He’s got an awesome memory.”

  “Memory? Is that what you noticed?”

  “Well, the rest is nice too.”

  I don’t remember much else, just lots of loud conversation and people coming and going and more drinks. My friends made repeat trips to the bar, along with every other woman in the place it seemed, and I watched Henry handle the attention from the more aggressive ones with ease, sending them packing, drink in hand, but with a smile on their faces. My friends included. Our eyes met once, and I got a nice smile before he turned away. I chalked it up to him making sure that third drink he’d just made was for someone old enough.

  We never spoke, but as we left he stopped whatever he was doing and gave me his full attention on our way out. His smile was now two-fold as if he were glad to have seen me, but also disappointed to see me go. I got as far as the door before he called out.

  “Hey . . . Vodka Gimlet!”

  It’s what I drink. I turned and found myself rooted in place by those eyes. I remember Mary giving me a little shove and I’m suddenly at the bar with less than a foot separating us.

  “I don’t know your name?”

  “It’s Alexandra. Alex.”

  “I’m Henry.”

  I think I just smiled, unable to speak and feeling the daggers bore into me from every female eye in the place.

  “You don’t like bars.”

  “No . . . not really.”

  “Me either. Do you like coffee?”

  “Um . . . sure?”

  I don’t remember the rest very well. There was a napkin. One with a phone number and the name of a coffee bar scribbled on it. I pocketed it with a smile and he went back to work.

  I fully expected to be murdered by a crowd of mean girls on my way home, but somehow I survived.

  Coffee led to lunch and then a day just walking the city and talking before he had to go to rehearsal. We did it again the next day. And the next.

  Some people assume Henry is after my money, but I know better. He’s had money, and if he wanted could probably have it again, but he made the choice to go a different route.

  He’s from Michigan. A college town on the west side of the state with a funny name. His family has a business, office supplies or something equally as boring, that’s been passed down for a few generations. Henry was being groomed to take over but wanted to act instead. Things came to a head, he and his father had words, and the result is Henry being here in New York pursuing his dream on his own dime. He has a younger sister, one who married her way out of town, and she keeps him up on what’s going on at home, but other than that he’s estranged.

  And I’m an orphan. So it’s now just me and him against the world.

  I’m okay with that.

  Chapter Three

  * * *

  He’s grinning at me now as I come through the doors, the perfect smile and piercing blue eyes that first caught my attention are on full display. His hair is longer and falling in his face and the beard is coming in as well. It’s for a part he’s playing and I’ve grown to like these temporary changes he makes. Well, most of them. One time he had to gain twenty pounds, and it wasn’t pretty watching him gorge himself on pasta every night. But the job of an actor is to be a chameleon, and he’s become very good at it. He’s almost back to normal now. The blond hair from his last role is gone, and his dark locks are back. His abs are starting to reappear, and I can testify that the better diet has given him more energy. He’s a casting agent’s dream, and I wonder again how he ever ended up with me.

  He’s stopped the little car on the curb while Norman, our doorman, dressed in his spotless uniform and white gloves, stands obediently holding the passenger door open for me with a finger and thumb. While I’ve seen it many times before, the pose is still comical, but I hold my tongue. “Like a nun holding a dildo.” Henry once remarked. He has a gift for metaphor. Or is it a simile? I forget.

  “Miss VanCamp.” Norman greets me with a nod and his plastic smile today. Lips spread wide with two rows of pearly whites showing, but with eyes that don’t match. I’ve known Norman since I was a child and while always polite he became my father’s informer as I grew older and my attitude toward him adjusted accordingly. He now views me as a spoiled child with an attitude. He’s not a fan of Henry either, as if Henry cared. Norman is very nice to my stepmother however, which makes me wonder if he’s now reporting to her. I’m just not sure which of his faces is genuine anymore, so I’m careful what I say around him now as I never know what will get back to her.

  “Thank you, Norman. Stay warm.”

  “I will.”

  Norman shuts the door behind me as I fall in and lean across for a kiss. Henry’s new beard tickles my face, but I ignore it. He has a kiss that speaks, and I never tire of listening. It’s hard to describe, but in my limited experience, there are boys who never learn to kiss right, those who eventually learn, and those who just know. Henry didn’t need to learn; like a musical savant, he can just play without instruction. I’ve spent entire rainy afternoons just kissing him.

  An impatient honk from behind us breaks the moment and Norman gives us a smile and a shake of his head as we pull away. I laugh aa I wave to him and while doing so catch a glimpse of Emily, frowning down at us from the second-floor window. I watch a bit too long and my neck lets me know it when I turn back.

  Henry sees me wince and that’s all he needs.

  “What happened?”

  I look at him, but he keeps his eyes and head straight forward, negotiating the morning east side traffic and working the stick shift and clutch like a nautilus machine. He’s intensely handsome, even in profile, and able to communicate without words in a way I never can. His pursed lips and tight jaw are now telling me not to try and wave his question away as he usually lets me do.

  “I couldn’t find my notes from last night, so she had a captive audience for a while until I found them.”

  “And?”

  “Oh, the usual. Everyone is stupid and everyone should listen to her and if they don’t, they’ll never amount to anything, and my uncle is a waste of time, and my father was a saint, etc, etc.”

  “Was she drinking?”

  “She was awake.”

  “Sorry. Stupid question.”

  These weekend visits to my uncles have become a regular thing. Sometimes it’s interrupted by Henry’s work. When that happens I’m content to wait for him at his apartment where I can enjoy the silence without the constant threat of my stepmother coming home drunk, or even worse, bringing some boy-toy home. She’s right about it being a crappy apartment though. The walls are paper thin and the movements and conversations of the neighbors are not hard to overhear if one wished to. The sounds of the street outside are present 24/7, but after a while, it all fades into the background. Henry calls it the soundtrack, as if the apartment had its own theme music. I like that.