I appeared to be passed out for most of the ambulance ride, thinking I would have to slip out before any blood test results came back or they would want to know why I was covered in someone else’s blood. The cops left me at the hospital, not filing any charges, and I breathed a sigh of relief as their twinkling taillights faded into the night. Country cops were often dumb but those two had been on the fence about me, I was sure of it and I made a mental note to keep off the main roads when I slipped out.
The time in the emergency room passed so slow, I really did fall asleep for while and when they stitched me up, surprised at my refusal of drugs, I was left alone with no guard. The doctor who sank the needle into my forearm seven times didn’t talk much but his one comment made me glad I was not hooked up to any machines.
“This looks defensive.” His dark eyes studied my paling face, instantly drawing the wrong conclusion, and when he began to tell me of places that would help an abused woman, I hid a smile and told him I would think about it. He gave me a card as he left, along with a searching look I tried not to squirm under, and then I was free to go. To Miami Avenue.
It was only half a mile from here and I thanked the nurses politely as I went out the glass doors. I didn’t have a weapon but I carried my hatred deep and I headed through the backwoods to her one floor ranch home.
Marguerite lived alone, a failed actress trying the 9 to 5 scene, and I lurked in the tall bushes beneath her window, waiting. Her lights were on, television blaring out the news of yet another wave of oil washing onto oceanfront property and then I could feel the night around me still. The darkness slid further over her home, the news changing to the late show, and when her light finally went off, I eased from my hiding place. After tonight, she would have no need of a married man or anything else.
I had already chosen my point of entry, the doggy door I was slim enough to squeeze through, and I was careful to touch nothing I couldn’t wipe off afterwards. My husband’s body wouldn’t be found but sweet little Marguerite would appear to be the victim of a home invasion.
Her house smelled of sex and candy, the cheap, plastic tasting kind, and I grimaced at the odor as I passed through her tiny kitchen and headed up the hall stairs. I had staked her place out for a week before I made my move, making sure I knew where she’d be, and I took the stairs with a quiet caution any ninja would have admired…