When I Kill You Read Free

at nine tomorrow morning. Look for a white Ford Fiesta. We’ll talk then. And, Gina, I want you to know, if you don’t show, I’ll go public. So this is a meeting you don’t want to miss.” She walked to the door and pulled it open. Over her shoulder she said, “Nine am sharp. I’ll expect you,” and walked out.
    I stood there, not believing what I’d just heard. Then I put the toilet seat lid down and sat on it and held my head. I could see what it would look like to the cops. And to the insurance company, who would love a reason not to pay up.
    I thought, Chico, you bastard .
    He was a womanizer and a gambler. I knew that when I married him. But he was good-looking, with dark curly hair and coffee-colored eyes and a wild sense of humor. I even thought his taking out a joint life-insurance policy was a wacky joke. I never dreamed he’d try to kill me for it.
    The sad thing is, for a while there on July 10, our seventh anniversary, I thought I was having one of the happiest days of my married life. Chico had put together a cooler of smoked salmon and potato salad, a shaker of shooters and a couple of bottles of champagne—the high-class stuff—with proper champagne glasses, not plastic. He’d hiked us up to a secluded spot high up above Winona Gorge. The view was great. He’d even thought to bring a blanket to lie on, cushions, a tape deck with romantic music.
    â€œHere’s to you, Gina,” he said and kept refilling my glass.
    Then he said, “Hey, babe, come look at this.” And he took me over to the edge of the cliff.
    That’s when he tried to give me the push. I thought he was playing around, and I remember saying, “Hey, Chico, stop it, man. It’s dangerous.” It took me a second to realize he wasn’t joking. He should have known better. You don’t shove a mud wrestler. I told myself over and over it was a case of self-defense. And it was. Except for that split second, just as he was toppling backward, when maybe I could have saved him. I could have lunged forward and grabbed him. Maybe. But I didn’t. Let’s say I was in shock and fighting for my life. Or that in that moment I realized what a worthless shit I was married to. And it was Chico who took the quick way down.
    Suddenly the Ladies room door swung open and Wild Woman Wanda burst in. She was dripping from her hose-down and her bottle-red hair was plastered to her face. A big gal whose trademark was a leopard-skin off-one-shoulder wrestling suit. It made her look like a chunky Tarzan.
    â€œBad luck, Lava,” she crowed as she strutted past me to the shower. She liked me about as much as I liked her. “You need to work on your technique, girl.” Wanda coming on top of Marcia Beekland was more than I could handle.
    â€œTry me for a rematch, mud skipper,” I yelled. “ I’ll murder you! ” Then I realized what I had said.

CHAPTER THREE
    I didn’t sleep at all that night. I closed my eyes, but those ten seconds on the cliff kept replaying in my mind. The video was damning. There was no way the cops would accept a claim of self-defense, no way North American Life would cut a check. But I needed the money. A loan shark named Bernie, a gorilla with a broken nose, was hounding me for thirty thousand bucks, Chico’s gambling debts. He was being patient while I waited for the insurance payout. But any day now I expected him to get nasty. I had to keep that date with Marcia.
    I dragged myself up at daybreak Monday morning, grabbed my iPod and went for a run. I hoped it would clear my head. It didn’t. After I got back, I showered. I gulped a cup of coffee, strong and black. Normally I take it sweet with cream with a donut on the side. I ate some dry toast. I almost heaved it up. At 8:00 I called my boss at the post office to say I’d be late for work.
    â€œWhat is it this time?” Roz said.
    I’d already had quite a