Simone Is Not a Killer by Rebecca Markus

Simone Is Not a Killer by Rebecca Markus

Author:Rebecca Markus [Rebecca Markus]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2023-09-29T00:00:00+00:00


13

The Polaroid

Simone

Damn.

I’d forgotten all about that picture.

It was an insane thing to do. I knew it as I was doing it. One Tuesday afternoon when the library closed early I drove thirty minutes to the outskirts of town where new developments of homes sat against the backdrop of rolling hills. Once there I wove my way down tree-lined streets of cookie-cutter houses looking for the address I’d written down and stuck to my dashboard with tape.

Don’s address. I’d copied it from his driver’s license when he left his wallet at my apartment a month before. He was so frantic when he came looking for it the following Monday. He was waiting at my door when I got home from work. The look of a weekend’s worth of panic made me chuckle to myself as I unlocked my door and sauntered over to where it lay on my nightstand. He breathed a sigh of relief and kissed me on the tip of my nose before replacing his hat and bolting out the door.

I don’t know why I did it. There was no need for me to know where he lived. I guess it was a kind of morbid curiosity. I didn’t have any plans to do anything. I wasn’t going to knock on his front door and tell his wife about our affair. That would serve me no purpose.

I didn’t want a commitment from Don. I wanted what we had. And when I eventually got tired of it I wanted to tell him to get lost. His family didn’t need to be involved.

So why was I there driving slowly down the street and checking addresses? I don’t know. I wanted to see where he lived. I wanted to know what the other side was like for the man who came into my bed and left with no attachment. I’m sure there’s some psychological explanation for it, but I wasn’t interested in analyzing it.

15421. I hit the brakes. Don’s house was 15425. I inched forward a little bit, trying not to be conspicuous. When I saw it I felt lightning bolts of nervousness and excitement rush through the middle of my body.

The house was two stories, white with navy trim. It had a garage on the side but no car in the driveway. I stared at the house and imagined what his wife looked like, what she did all day in there, how frustrated she got when the children got out of hand.

“Glad it’s not me,” I muttered to myself.

I picked up my Polaroid camera from the passenger seat and aimed it at the house. My finger pressed the button seconds before I heard a car approaching behind me. I panicked, tossed the camera back onto the seat, and floored it. I turned down another street and the car kept going straight.

Finally, I could pull over and check the film. I peeled back the black layer and there it was, a perfect black-and-white shot of the front of Don’s house. What was



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