Dearly Beloved
by Katherine Ley
Ronald Morgan stands in the office of his vast LA mansion, tuxedo jacket discarded on a plush, emerald chaise to the left. His brand-new wedding ring clacks on the wood of the tall ebony bookshelf behind him as he leans back, head tilted upward like he’s contemplating the plaster of the decorative ceiling.
In truth, the ceiling isn’t shit. It’s just that the catering waitress has her glossy lips wrapped around his dick.
I’ve been listening to slurping and smacking sounds for the last five fucking minutes. Meanwhile, the bride is downstairs surrounded by tufts of pink peonies and sparkling tea lights. It hasn’t even been an hour since the ceremony. I’ve been hiding in this closet since just after the “I dos.”
Last I checked, the new Mrs. Morgan was finishing off her third glass of champagne, mingling with the Hollywood folk, doing whatever brides do during this elaborate waste of money. Their special day.
I’ve never been into voyeurism but it’s hard not to watch Morgan and the waitress. She is certainly giving it her all, and it’s not like I can do anything else. I need Ronald alone, so here I sit in a closet with a full set of Louis Vuitton luggage and a case of Cuban cigars. The smell of leather and tobacco is nearly overwhelming.
It’s hard to kill a man when he’s rich, surrounded by staff, and living in properties ringed by razor-barbed fences. He wasn’t a cradle-born billionaire, but he grew up with the elites; his wealth and lifestyle built from his father’s music production business, founded decades ago. Ronald pretends to keep it running, but Moonlight Records is managed by a raft of industry veterans. They don’t need Ronald. So he spends his time enjoying the spoils of his father’s wealth. Eating. Drinking. Causing ludicrous scenes across the globe, usually naked. He pops in for a board meeting from time to time. They make him feel like he’s made some important decisions. He accepts his pat on the head and goes on his merry way. He doesn’t pay attention to details. Which works out for me.
After years of planning, I’m ready. I waited. I prayed extra hard at Mother’s tombstone for nothing to go wrong. The dirt underneath my fingernails proves it. With the chaos of the wedding, sneaking into his house and stealing a chef’s uniform and cap was easier than I expected. Everything is going according to plan.
Except of course, that Ronald seems to be savoring this—whatever this encounter is.
No sooner do I have the thought than he shudders. He grips the top of the waitress’s head and shoves himself in her mouth to the hilt. As she gags he emits out a sound that’s a cross between the honk of a goose and the bleat of a baby goat.
Christ. It’s about goddamn time. He wipes himself down with her shirt, zips up, and heads to the lavish bathroom connected to his office. Stumbling to stand, knees rubbed raw, she wipes the edges of her mouth and follows him. She uses her hands to cup water into her mouth, then leans over the porcelain sink and spits the last bit of Ronald Morgan down the drain. She pops something bright and pink in her mouth, then crosses her arms and looks at the floor.
“So. You said you’d help a girl out,” she says, pointing her thumb toward the door to the hallway, where indeed the promise was made.
Ronald’s home office is fiercely masculine with platinum records decorating the concrete-and-wood walls. Black shelves hold Tonys and Grammys, carafes of whiskey, and bulbous vases that serve no purpose.
Ronald splashes water on his face and blows his nose into the sink. Disgusting. Probably pees in the shower too. “You can see my man at the gate on the way out. Oh, but before you go, one of your girlfriends, the blonde with the red highlights? Tell her to meet me here in 30.” He winks at her, and I fight the urge to gag.
At first, the catering waitress knits her eyebrows together, confused. It isn’t long before disgust warps her face. “You sick fuck.”
His gregarious facade dims. I see his fists tighten. “The fuck did you say?” I think he’s going to hit her.
She flinches away from him. “You…you said you could book me a meeting with Dave Monhaug,” she whines. “You said you had more important people in your iPhone contacts than the President.”
Ronald stands in front of her and sighs. “I do.”
At forty, his hair is still going strong and black and full. He marches into the office and grabs his jacket from the chaise, like he’s suddenly remembered it’s an important day. I see a peony tucked in his lapel.
He pulls his arms through the sleeves, straightens his cuffs in the bathroom mirror. “Was it good?” he asks.
The waitress says nothing, and he grips her wrist. “Yeah, it was so good.” She adds tone at the end, trying to sound confident.
“You know it was. I’m a fucking musical, baby.” He slaps her ass. “Off you go. I’ll see you after the honeymoon. And hey.” She turns to face him, her eyes glazed and sad. “Ronald Morgan keeps his promises. Bring me the redhead and we’ll talk.”
She nods and smiles, but it’s all hard and thin and fake. The door to the office shuts, and finally I’m alone with the groom. There’s a metal cord in my pocket, rolled up like a snake. With my fingers, I unravel it, tighten it around my wrists the way Mother taught me. Adrenaline rushes in my body. I’m alert and focused.
Ronald buttons up his jacket in front of the bathroom mirror. From here, I see him clearly. A strong Roman nose, sunken eye sockets, and angular cheek bones. He’s all flushed post coitus. It makes him look even more handsome.
I hate him.
Ronald drops his wedding band on the marble floor. He bends to catch it, and I know this is the chance. The ring rolls under the large vanity and he maneuvers his arm underneath to grab it.
Silently, I open the closet door and sneak behind Ronald. The air is stone.
One step.
Two.
He pulls his arm back, having successfully caught the ring and stands to face the gold-framed mirror.
Our green eyes lock in the reflection, but there’s no time to waste. I swing the metal cord around my brother’s neck and pull.
Ronald claws my face, tries to find purchase around him. A table. The golden knob on the bathroom cabinet. Anything to get me to stop. But slowly, in a way that’s sweet and precious, he goes limp. As his last breaths dissolve, I see my future appear. The fame. The fortune. The money.
He stops moving, then stills. Dead. Finally dead.
Hands shaking, I stand, the adrenaline slipping away, but I ride its last waves to move quick. With effort, I peel off Ronald’s suit and stash his body in the closet. I’ll deal with him after the wedding.
I put on the tuxedo, straighten the now wilted peony as best I can on the lapel, and comb my hair back, checking in the mirror to make sure no strand is out of place.
It’s hard to hate someone that looks exactly like you. That’s the thing about being a twin brother. We’re alike in every aspect, from the black hair down to the tiny mole on our left cheeks. Ronald always smirked, though. A smile that limped to the side. But I’ve been practicing his expressions. It’s the kind of face that thinks it owns the world.
And now, according to Mother, I will.
I take the ring from the marble floor, and slide it on to my left hand.
#
A knock on the office door jostles me, and in comes Ronald’s wife.
My wife now.
Ronald had good taste in women, and that taste peaked with Maya Yernos. Puerto Rican beauty. Light brown eyes, hair in waves, legs for days, and runner-up for Miss Universe. Maya’s wedding dress is so sheer that at first, I think that she’s naked underneath the gown. The diaphanous material folds over her curves like a second skin, and a daring plunge line leads down to her navel. Yet, somehow Maya looks…regal. Mother used to say that about Jackie Kennedy all the time, before the illness pulled her away from me.
For a moment, Maya watches me. My throat stops working and I wait for the point where she understands the lie. Turns me in, or screams.
She does nothing.
I breathe. This is going so well.
A pang hits me. Mother should be here to see this moment. The thought of her brings up memories of positano lemon dresses and eucalyptus candles. Once a year, Mother and I would play a game. She would light a candle and tape a picture of my twin brother on my forehead. In the dim light, she’d slice the tips of my fingers and dip them in a bowl of freshly squeezed lemon juice. Like a school play, I’d pretend I was Ronald. I would apologize and cry and beg for Mother’s mercy. Then came her favorite part. She’d pretend to kill me—kill Ronald—and our enactment would be complete.
I played many parts for Mother, but this gave me the most honor. The most connection to her and my absentee brother.
Ronald should have missed her too, but he ignored her letters and phone calls. Ignored her needs. We could’ve used Ronald’s money to buy the expensive medication she needed to survive. Instead, I put her in the ground.
Maya looks around the office, not meeting my eyes. “Hey,” she says. Her voice is as soft as her dress and I try not to like it. “Have you seen my lighter?”
I shake my head and pretend to adjust my bow tie, praying the lighter she’s looking for is not in the closet.
“Busy down there?” I ask. I find mouthwash, swish, and spit. Ronald was obsessed with the smell of his breath—making sure it was always fresh.
“Just the way you like it. Audience of five hundred,” she says, nonchalantly. She fumbles on the desk until she finds what she’s looking for, an S.T. Dupont lighter. I make like my twin, walk up to her, light her joint like I used to light up Mother’s cigarettes.
I pluck the joint out of Maya’s hand and take a smoke, handing it back to her. She moves her hair out of the way, leaning back onto the top of the desk. “People Magazine is camped outside, pestering for an interview and a promise to feature the wedding with a three-page spread.” Maya scoffs. “I couldn’t be more ready to go to St. Barts. Enjoy the Caribbean before my launch next month.” Maya is a budding fashion designer, with Ronald financing her new line.
She rubs her forehead, joint poised between her fingers.
“We can do both. Let’s give them ten minutes, then we’ll leave. Go to our honeymoon, enjoy the yacht.” I add a smile. It’s what Ronald would’ve done. He loved the camera, and it would be in my best interest to play his part as long as I can. Hell, I might ride his media persona right into the presidency.
Maya is stiff. Emotionless. The girl doesn’t even grin. “Lighten up a bit,” I say, using Ronald’s patented smirk. “It’s our special day.”
Pocketing the lighter, she heads to the door. “Okay. Please behave this time and—”
I walk up to my bride and place a hand on the knob, forcing her to step back. I snatch the joint out of her hands and take another smoke. My twin’s life, money, power, and influence may be all mine, but first, I have to deal with pretty little Maya. “I do what I want. You know that. Now go say your goodbyes and get ready to go. We leave tonight.”
Her eyes harden and I expect resistance, but she nods. I let the handle go and watch her walk away.
The lump in my chest loosens just a little. Maya didn’t suspect me, but she’s still alive and well, that means my job isn’t done.
#
My name is Monet Bastion. Mother tells the story best, but the gist is that she ran away from the slums of eastern Sicily to Los Angeles, only to have her heart broken.
She fell in love with a gambler. He didn’t love her back.
She gave him the last of her savings. He quadrupled it at the tables, then invested it in a dusty old recording studio. Moonlight Records was born.
She had twins. He wanted only one heir. And, he no longer wanted her.
When she died five years ago, I broke. If we had even a sliver of Ronald’s money, she would’ve lived, and I wouldn’t have tried to slice my wrists sitting next to Edvard Munch’s Starry Night at The Getty. It was one of her favorite paintings and it seemed a pleasant way to die—until I heard Mother in my head for the first time.
She’s not much of a conversationalist. Nevertheless, she’s been my guide, like the stars in Starry Night. She made it clear that my death wasn’t the answer. A simple sentence was all I needed to get started:
Kill Ronald Morgan.
She was right. Killing the other, my father’s favorite, was the revenge we both needed.
Unfortunately, that was really just step one. I need to complete the job.
The helicopter ride from St. Bart’s airport to the yacht is short. Blue skies, and even bluer waters sparkle in the sun rise. Ronald’s vessel is a pearl on the ocean, sleek and smooth. With black, glass windows, five balconies, and three swimming pools, the massive ship is a townhouse on the water. Twenty-two million dollars. Leave it to Ronald to purchase the third largest superyacht in the world for a one-week honeymoon.
The helicopter touches down on the stern. We’re early, so none of the staff have lined up to greet us. Maya’s high heels touch the landing pad as I help her out of the helicopter. Mother taught me to be a gentleman; she would dislocate and have me reset my own fingers if I didn’t open a door for a lady.
Maya turns from me and reaches into her purse to grab her phone.
Push her.
Mother’s voice grips me, and I quickly scan the area.
The sun highlights Maya standing too close to the edge of the helicopter platform. A quick glance over the edge confirms the yacht is now moving, and that if dear Maya slips, she’ll get tangled up in the yacht's propellers and pulled under the ship.
In three steps, I’m in front of Maya. Inch by inch, I close in on her. She nods at me, bangles clinking while she talks on the phone. Naturally, she backs up, unaware that she’s walking backwards and heading off the platform. Her left heel lifts. My lungs hitch. I reach out my hand…
“Watch out!” The scream jars us both just in time for a steward to rush up the stairs toward us. Maya’s phone splashes into the water. Her heel catches the edge, and she gasps, arms flapping. There are witnesses. I have no choice but to snatch Maya by the waist and pull her to me.
Maya breathes hard, looks between me and the ocean, and to the steward, who is now huffing and reddening in the face, apologizing frantically for not greeting us on time. Maya wraps her arms around me, her head on my chest, and I’m immediately uncomfortable. Her heart beats so fast I can feel it pound through her rib cage. She mumbles a thank you, and all I can think is fuck the steward.
Patience, my love, Mother says. Patience.
“That was close,” I say to Maya. I lift her face and place my hands on either side of her neck, feigning despair. For a moment, I imagine that I’m choking her, squeezing the life out of the one thing standing in between me and my money—me and my salvation—me and my destiny.
Maya turns away, flushed, but I spot my finger impressions on her neck. A reminder that I let Maya go, for now.
#
“Welcome to The Mogul, Mr. and Mrs. Morgan,” the staff all say in unison. One after the other, we meet the crew. The chief steward, Josip, steps forward and gives us the tour of the ship. As he walks, he twists his handlebar mustache, chest out proud, waving around the boat with quick flicks of the wrists like a children’s magician.
I glance over at Maya who doesn’t look at Josip or any of the crew, and instead stares at the water. Her palms rest on the glass railing, white dress and flowing sleeves billowing in the breeze.
Fifteen minutes into the tour, he leads us down dimmed steps.
“And here we have the best part of the ship, the tender. The Mogul holds a thirty-foot float-in to explore islands or other areas inaccessible to the yacht.”
Josip chatters on, but my mind is on my plan. This is how I’m going to do it. Take the tender out, find a remote spot—no witnesses—and watch in horror as a tragic accident ensues. It’s perfect.
We climb back up onto the main balcony, where there’s a table decorated with orchids, sushi, and champagne flutes. Maya sits on the cream leather seats and dons an overly large straw hat.
“Get the tender ready. I’ll take the new missus out and, uh, christen it with her.” I chuckle and Josip laughs too loud at my joke.
“No.” The word fires like a single bullet out of Maya.
“Oh, come on, love!” Does Ronald call her love? Honey? Babe? I bend to give her a kiss on the cheek, which she accepts.
She leans over the table and grabs a cool glass of champagne. I pluck a piece of sushi from the veritable rainbow on display and pop it into my mouth.
Raw fish. It’s disgusting, but I chew and swallow. The rich are ridiculous.
“No,” she says again.
I consider killing her right there and then on the deck, no matter who’s watching.
“I’m going up to the pool,” she says.
Eyes shut, I swipe my hair back, and like I’m talking to a toddler, I say, “The pool? We should explore. Out in the boat. You have an entire ocean.” I spread my hands towards the sea.
She rolls her eyes.
I finger the metal cord in my pocket, and hear Mother’s sweet voice in my head. Patience is power. I’ll kill her soon enough. Swigging more champagne, I follow Maya to the pool and sit next to her. She’s not leaving my sight until she’s dead.
Three fucking days and the bitch won’t get on the yacht’s tender.
I’ve tried twice to kill her by other means.
The first night, I snuck into the shower with her. I planned for her to slip, fall, and crack her skull against the tile. But as soon as I closed the glass door behind me, she pounced on me, nibbled my earlobe, whispered how she wanted me inside of her. I backed into the humid wall. I couldn’t concentrate; I thought I was going to drown. She kept stroking and cooing and licking my ear, and next she’s gripping me like her life depended on it.
She looked down at my limpness. My cheeks flushed, and I stuttered something incoherent—I don’t remember what I said—and I almost slipped and cracked my own skull.
Maya grunted dismissively and walked out naked. After that, I took the longest, coldest shower of my life.
This was supposed to be a honeymoon, I knew. I couldn’t put her off indefinitely. I needed a plan. Luckily, Ronald’s luggage was packed fucking full of Viagra. And that night, when Maya slid into the stateroom cloaked in white silk like cream poured over her ripe curves, I concentrated on Mother’s voice in my head. She didn’t let me down. She coached me, whispered with increasing madness, urging me in frantic breaths take what is yours, Monet. Yes, yes, take it. Take it all!
I came loudly, and finally, Maya slept.
When she is sleeping, I dislike her least. I didn’t expect it, but Maya is mean. Once in front of the wait staff, she slapped me when I wouldn’t shut up about Ronald’s—my Bugatti collection. By the pool she accidentally stepped on my hand with the stiletto heel of her slide, and later, while we were being served dinner, she moved her hand down my inner thigh, grabbed my skin and twisted. I didn’t let myself react, but in those moments, dizzy, I forgot who to be—Ronald or Monet.
All is not lost, however, because for the past few days, Josip and I have been steering the tender around the main yacht. I’m confident I can pilot the thing and so, today is the day Maya dies. I cannot fucking wait.
“The wife and I are adventuring today!” I declare. I clap my hands together and pop a cherry breakfast tart in my mouth.
The crust is flaky, the filling—still warm. I wash it down with a swig of espresso. I didn’t think I’d enjoy this phony honeymoon, but it turns out there is nothing like a meal on the aft of a mega yacht floating in the Caribbean.
“Excellent.” Josip, the first mate, waves over a steward. She approaches with a large Yeti cooler and a picnic basket. “We packed a lunch, champagne, caviar, tea sandwiches—the works!” He walks me to the tender and motions me towards the helm. He swipes the screen on the control panel and points to a bathymetric chart, finger circling bumpy contours on the map. “Yes, right here! This is a small archipelago of islands you can tour. From here to—” He traces a sprinkle of islands between Cayo Diablo and La Blanquilla. “There.” He leans back, hands on his hips, satisfied. “No one will bother you and your bride there,” he says with a wink.
I smile at Josip and clap him on the shoulder. He’s shown me exactly where I want to go, but not for the reason he thinks. Dump Maya’s body off the coast of one of these islands, and the ocean will suck her into the depths—a feast for the crabs and bottom feeders.
Mother and I envisioned all the many ways that I could kill Ronald, my billionaire twin, and take his fortune, including drowning. She taught me to be a strong swimmer, and would have me submerge my head in a bucket of ice water if my strokes weren’t perfect. My lung capacity was such that I could outlast any attempts to fight back.
Ronald was already dead, of course. But killing his new wife would be easy.
She walks up to the tender, looking annoyed, but before she can say no to our trip, I place my hands on her shoulders, the delicate floral coverup soft underneath my palms. “Just you and me, baby. Out there.”
“I’m tired.” Her voice is monotonous as ever.
For a moment, the lash of the water slapping the tender is the only sound we hear.
I grit my teeth, then grip her shoulders tighter. I lean next to her ear and whisper through gritted teeth, “Get. In the fucking. Tender.”
Mother taught me never to speak to women that way, but I am not me. I am Ronald, and I have to play the part until Maya is dead.
To my surprise, a light glints in Maya’s eyes. “Fine.” She effortlessly ties her hair in a low bun, sits, and crosses her long legs. She stares at me over her white sunglasses. “Well? Are we going?”
Josip jumps out and waves goodbye. The staff shove the tender off the chocks, I put the throttle down and glance back as the yacht becomes just a dot with nothing but the vast sea before us. With one hand, I steer the boat, and with the other I smoke a Gurkha Royal. Being Ronald is easy. Thousand thread count sheets and embargoed cigars? I was made for luxury. Or, was it made for me? Either way—soon this will all be mine.
Maya leans against the seats, not at all appalled by the speed at which I’m driving the tender, clueless that I’m aiming for the most remote part of the sea—the part that will serve as her grave. Her beautiful head tilts towards the yellow sun, her tanned skin glistening, and for a moment, I imagine she could be my actual wife. Spend forever by my side.
Take it all, Mother says in my head. Kill her.
I grow hard at the thought. Then I remember Mother showing me how to skin my first snake. She would so be damned proud of me today.
The tender beeps when we approach the small, remote islands. I swerve around one of them carefully, navigating into a small lagoon, hiding our view from The Mogul, which is at least a nautical mile away.
Oh Maya, Maya, Maya.
She offers me a puff of her joint and I take it hoping she doesn’t notice I’m shaking from excitement. With my left hand, I caress the metal cord in my pocket, ready to go.
Red-billed birds chirp on the shore. Mangroves hug the edge of the island, its branches gnarled and bent over the water. Waves gnaw at its coast.
I shut the engine off, the sound of crickets too loud on the wild oasis.
“Fucking noise,” I mumble. At least no one will hear her scream.
“They’re called coqui,” Maya says, passing me the joint for the third time since we’ve been on the small boat. She points towards the island. Something hops next to a bruise-colored flower. “Coqui,” she repeats. A few tiny frogs splash in and out of a pond, croaking louder and louder and louder.
I repeat the word, unfamiliar and funny in my mouth. The word drags out of my lips like I’m drooling molasses.
Then the air shifts. A creak in gravity, and I know something is terribly wrong.
The sun turns a vomit yellow. I hold the railing of the tender, shake my head and take out the metal cord. Maya has her back to me. Bile gathers at the bottom of my throat, but I swallow it down.
I run through the plan again: choke her, weigh her body down and throw her overboard. The story is she slipped, fell off the boat and then—
“Do you feel it?” Her voice is calm but there is something different to it. An accent?
“Feel what?” I strain to push the words out of my mouth.
Maya’s outline blurs in the bright sun. Then it hits me. My feet first, then my arms. Limp, dull, and with a sudden rush, I fall on my knees, hitting the deck.
My breath stagnates and my stomach hurts, tightens, until bile bursts out of me. My vomit is red and purple, and when I place my fingers on my lips, they come back crimson. What the fuck is going on?
A shadow envelops me, and when I look up at the sky, there are clouds hanging low, a threatening black mass looming on the horizon. My gaze shifts lower and lower, my head bobbing, when my eyes meet Maya’s face. She stands over me, and I try to hide the metal cord behind me, not wanting her to see my weapon. I still have a chance, if I can just stand.
“Hello, Monet.”
The way she says my name, my real name, draws my gut up tight. For the first time since I’ve been on this fucking honeymoon, Maya smiles, her face all teeth, like a shark. “Took you long enough, but I love a challenge.” With her foot, she pokes me in the chest. She glances at her watch and sighs, but this time, she looks satisfied.
Like this was all part of a plan.
“How…how…me…” My words slur and she sits me up, the girl surprisingly strong. She moves her sunglasses to the top of her head, amber gaze on me. Gold hoop earrings glint sharply against my now sensitive eyes.
“Poison,” she says and waves her joint at me. “I can’t smoke this shit even if I wanted to. But you did. You made it too easy.”
Poison? But why me?
Again, that smile. She chuckles. “I’ve been watching you watching me, and I have to be honest, when I first spotted you in that beat-up Corolla, I thought it was Ronald. Of course, he’d never be seen dead in such a thing. So, then, I realized—a twin. But how was I going to kill all three of you? I bathed in salt for a whole week to make sure it wasn’t bad luck.”
Three? What is she talking about? She takes the lit end of the joint and presses it into my arm. My heart races, but there isn’t any pain. Just the acrid smell of burnt hair and flesh. Another reminder of Mother. My skin turns a slight purple at the edges.
“You like that, right?” She laughs, then throws the joint over her shoulder into the sea. She stoops down and unlocks a hatch, pulls out a Louis Vuitton suitcase. Clicks it open, the sound like a hammer in my ear.
The smell hits me first.
In the suitcase, all lined up neat, are pieces of a body. It is absolutely female. A pelvis with delicate underwear, a hip joint glistening with cartilage. A wrist with a diamond bracelet. Then a hand. What was once a red manicured fingernail falls off.
And then I see it, and if I could turn away, I would have.
It’s a head.
It’s Maya’s head.
But Maya is here…
The stranger in front of me pulls away in disgust and waves a hand in front of her nose. She clicks the suitcase closed. Drags it, then pulls it over the gunwale of the tender. The boat rocks from the shift in weight, and with a splash, the suitcase sinks fast into the watery abyss. “Weights. I didn’t need too many, Maya was thin. Always too thin.” She leans over me again and flicks my nose, but I don’t feel a thing. She leans her head back and laughs. “Oh! If I had a mirror, I would show you your face! My goodness, I wish I could photograph this moment and hang it on my wall.” And the way she says it, it sounds like this isn’t her first rodeo. “Listen, I know what you did. You killed Ronald, which made my job a lot easier. And I want you to know, that means a lot. So, thank you,” she whispers. Amber eyes burn into mine. Menacing. Maniacal. “Maya was already gone by then, but the timing was impeccable.”
She sighs and looks over at the clouds. A drizzle starts. “You know, Maya left me all alone to fend for myself in Cataño. She promised that once she went to the US she’d bring back money, send for us, help us all out.” Maya clicks her tongue. “She brought me a pair of Levi’s and a Dodgers cap. Then she left again and never came back. Fucking twins, right?”
She sits back, stares at the island, and says softly, “Did you know, Monet, that if you take a coqui out of Puerto Rico, it will die, or destroy the entire habitat where it’s placed? I will not die. Ronald’s money will be put to good use, better than whatever you had in mind. I hope that’s a comfort.”
I want to shake my head because I see her now, see us, what we could’ve been together. She’s so beautiful, and smart, and she…she bested me. How Mother would’ve liked her! But now, looking at her as drool drips from my slackened mouth, I can’t tell her any of that.
It’s too late. I see excitement in Maya’s eyes, and death. I know that look too well.
She stands. “You’ll drown in a terrible, terrible accident, mi vida. You just really wanted to look at the fish, but you drowned. I tried to save your life. Tried to drag your body back into the boat. But you were too heavy.” She winks, and my heart sinks. “I promise to live for all four of us, and I always keep my promises.”
She takes the freshwater hose from the stern and turns the knob, letting the water pour over her head. She swipes her eyes and her mascara starts running. It looks like she’s been crying.
She drags me by the shoulders and flings my legs over the side. I don’t even feel the splash once I’m overboard. She waves goodbye at me as my thighs, waist, chest, then fingers slip under the sea. I can hold my breath longer than most. Minutes pass before I grow tired. But then, inevitably the seawater slithers into my mouth.
The sun flicks off. The last thing I hear is the coqui chirping and Mother calling my name.
YOU HAVE REACHED THE END OF THE CHAIN.
Come back every Tuesday… if you dare.
About the author
Katherine Ley likes to read and write a lot. Science fiction, horror, and fantasy are her main genres thanks to her galaxy-gazing father and his love of Star Trek, Carl Sagan, and DUNE. Coupled with her Black, Chinese, and Indigenous background, her stories are about the unknown, the beautiful, and the strange. Her short story, LONG LIVE ANACAONA GUEY, was nominated for a PushCart Prize, and her first chapter of THE BRAINSTITCHER’S DAUGHTER won Second Place at YA Voyage.
Katherine is a member of SCBWI and Maryland Romance Writers and is an alumna of the Hurston/Wright Foundation Writers Workshop and VONA. She is a proud AmeriCorps alumna as well, having served Montgomery County Public Schools facilitating conversations on race and ethnicity within the school system. At the University of Maryland, she conducted and wrote research on health literacy in marginalized communities in Prince George’s County (MD).
When she’s not writing, Katherine enjoys baking vegan treats and taking her three kids and husband on adventures.