And When I Die, page 43
Ava could only return a faint wave as the girls shuffled down the sidewalk, destination unknown, their laughter, accompanying their complex lexicon, a secret code only they knew, rippling across the quartet as they disappeared from view.
As she watched their retreating backs, these best of friends, this inseparable pack of girls, the question she didn’t want to ask, wouldn’t dare say aloud, didn’t want to know the answer to, swirled through her brain. It was a question that, once unleashed, couldn’t be stuffed back in the box.
How long would it be before those girls turned on each other?
104
KIMBERLY
Kimberly Mendes wakes every morning at six a.m. without an alarm clock. She’s disciplined like that. She starts each day by throwing open the French windows of her miniscule second-floor, one-bedroom apartment in Old San Juan to let the warm, salty breezes of San Juan Bay flood into the living room. She stands on the Juliette balcony as she sips her morning café con leche, her eyes affixed to the gentle swells of white-capped, blue green water, relishing the balmy winds skimming across her skin.
Her apartment is a spartan residence with creaky wooden floors, a utilitarian couch she rarely sits on, a wobbly coffee table, a breakfast nook, a few lamps, and a singular bookshelf filled with trashy romance novels in Spanish. The only artwork is a framed acrylic portrait of Felisa Rincón de Gautier that came with the apartment.
After a quick shower, she slips into one of the multitudes of billowing, multicolored sundresses that are squeezed into her bedroom’s matchbox closet. There’s a quick swipe of lip gloss and dusting of blush before she runs a careless comb through her hair. She’d long since shed the honey blond extensions in favor of a short black bob of her natural hair and swapped the hazel contacts for light brown ones. She still spray tans, because even here, a golden brown hue is elusive to her naturally pasty skin. Kimberly is thinner than Ruthie, but fatter than Erica, a happy medium facilitated by her endless walks all over the city and eating whatever she wants without worry. It’s liberating to have a hearty jibarito or plate of sorullitos de maiz for dinner followed by a thick wedge of bizcocho de novia without the itch to burn it all away on a treadmill.
She works at a cramped bookstore six blocks away that smells of equal parts coffee, musty pages, and the lemon furniture cleaner she swabs the shelves with once a week. As the hard soles of her flat leather sandals slap against the bumpy cobblestones during the short walk, Kimberly smiles and nods to the shop owners opening their stores for business, the hot ball of yellow sun beating down on them, even at the early hour. She is friendly, but keeps to herself, preferring her own company to that of prying, cloying acquaintances.
The bookstore is never very busy, with twenty customers in a day constituting a rush. Kimberly used to wonder how the owner kept the doors open until she learned the woman’s wealthy husband kept it afloat for her as a distraction from his many mistresses. In between reading, she restocks the shelves, rearranges displays, and has fleeting, friendly chats with the customers, some of whom are regulars. She doesn’t need the paltry sum the woman pays her every Friday, since her money will outlast her, however long that is. Regardless, the work keeps her occupied and gives the appearance of stability.
On her days off, she plays tourist, even after ten years. She goes on helicopter tours, explores the old cathedrals, meanders along the streets of La Perla, strolls through the plazas while spooning a gelato. She visits El Morro often, perching herself on the hulking, jagged rocks as she stares at the ocean, imagining the battles that took place there in the fight for the island’s freedom.
It’s a metaphor she understands well.
Though she’d lived as Erica Mitchell believing she’d never be found out, she’d prepared for the possibility that she could be. Millions that Jay never missed squirreled away in dribs and drabs over the years into a secret unmarked account (considering the brutal swiftness with which he’d cut her off at the knees, she didn’t feel all that bad about taking his money), a new persona with the necessary ID and paperwork on standby.
One of the other inmates she’d befriended had smuggled in a stash of laxatives for her in exchange for a few cigarettes she’d swiped from someone else. She hid the box between the metal frame and flat sagging mattress in her cell until the time was right. It was a matter of a few hours before she was transferred to the infirmary where they were baffled as to why they were unable to stop her intestinal distress. They were just too stupid to notice that she kept slipping herself laxatives. She was eventually taken to the county hospital, where, once she was stabilized, the chaos of a busy, understaffed emergency room and the less-than-attentive cops guarding her allowed her to steal a pair of scrubs, palm the ID of a distracted nurse, and walk out the front door without so much as a raised eyebrow.
Her escape made national news. Of course. Even she had to admit it was quite remarkable that she was able to vanish once again. Who was able to do that twice in one lifetime? Her, apparently. To this day, Erica Mitchell remained a wanted fugitive. With any luck, she always would be. Then again, if she didn’t, Kimberly was ready.
Always have a plan.
Only on occasion did she think about Jordan and Kennedy. Fleeting, like those floaters behind your eyes. The girls were part of Erica Mitchell’s life, not Kimberly’s, and that life was a squashed, almost nonexistent memory. They probably didn’t miss her anyway. Besides, she’d learned the hard way that forming emotional attachments was a useless exercise.
Kimberly adjusts her sunglasses as she hands a five to the cashier at her favorite ice cream shop in exchange for a coconut limber, the gold Tiffany bracelet that dangles from her wrist clanking against the cold glass of the display case. She pops the concoction out of the plastic cup, biting into the sweet, frozen creaminess as she steps back into the steamy Saturday afternoon. A slender vein of sweat slithers down her spine, the result of the sweltering sun stubbornly clinging to the clear blue sky. An old man is perched on a milk crate at the corner, gently strumming his guitar as he wails a song of regret and longing in Spanish. Kimberly flicks the change from the ice cream shop into the rusted-out coffee can at his feet and he tips his battered old fedora in appreciation. A few steps ahead of her, she spots one of the ubiquitous walking tours of Old San Juan. She leisurely catches up to them, matching her steps to the lazy gait of the tourists who stumble around in awe of the candy-colored neon of the buildings, the wondrous cracked blue cobblestones, the enormous swaying palm trees.
She’ll just go along for the ride and pretend like she is one of them.
After all, she is good at pretending.
END
AUTHOR’S NOTE
AND WHEN I DIE was inspired by the 1984 murder of fifteen-year-old Kirsten Costas by her classmate, Bernadette Protti. Among the numerous books, articles, documentaries, and online materials I consulted in writing this novel, here are three that might be of particular interest:
Rolling Stone, July 18, 1985, p.44 Death of a Cheerleader: An American Tragedy by Randall Sullivan
Ladies’ Home Journal, November 1985, p.120 The Cheerleader Murder by Carol Pogash
Investigation Discovery, The 1980s: The Deadliest Decade, Season 1, Episode 3, The Cheerleader Murder
AUTHOR’S NOTE II
If you or someone you know is struggling with suicidal thoughts, please call the U.S. National Suicide Prevention Lifeline at 800-273-TALK (8255) any time day or night, or chat online. Crisis Text Line also provides free, 24/7, confidential support via text message to people in crisis at 741741.
Click HERE or tap the image above to access the following bonus content:
Deleted scenes with commentary from Bianca
An exclusive digital booklet that goes behind-the-scenes of the making of AND WHEN I DIE, including color photographs and the real-life true crime inspiration for the book
An exclusive high-resolution digital poster featuring the cover of AND WHEN I DIE, signed by Bianca
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Getting to THE END on AND WHEN I DIE was a long and bumpy road. The idea first sparked a number of years ago after I watched an episode of The 1980s: The Deadliest Decade about the murder of Kirsten Costas. I was so intrigued by the idea of what had happened to her murderer, that I asked myself the question, “What if she did it again?” With that premise driving me, off I went to write the story of vicious teenage girls, seething jealousies, and of course, the 80s (of course!). After a lot of false starts (and a few false endings), I finally figured out how to express the story I wanted to tell.
Every book starts with a thank you to First Reader Kathryn, who encouraged me to keep going (while, of course, telling me all the things wrong with the story). Thank you for your wisdom and your insights.
My awesome Beta Readers, Lanee, Kayla (during finals no less!) and Joy, for taking the time to read the manuscript and offering such great and necessary feedback.
To my editorial team, Lydia Jennings and Alison Scotchford, for your sharp eyes.
Thank you to Kate Rock and her team for helping to get the word out.
To all the bloggers, Bookstagrammers, podcasters, and reviewers who have read and reviewed my books, THANK YOU. Your support means so much to authors, especially those of us in the indie space.
There aren’t enough words of gratitude to my readers. Your emails, messages on social media, buying, reading, and reviewing my books—it really does help keep me going. Much love!
BOOKS BY BIANCA SLOANE
STANDALONE NOVELS
Killing Me Softly (Previously published as Live and Let Die)
Sweet Little Lies
What you don’t know
And when I die
THE EVERY BREATH YOU TAKE SERIES
Every Breath You Take
Missing You: A Companion Novella to Every Breath You Take
The Every Breath You Take Collection (Box Set of Every Breath You Take and Missing You)
THE LIVE TO TELL SERIES
Live To Tell
Tell Me A Lie
White Christmas (A Live To Tell short story)
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Bianca Sloane is the author of the suspense novels Killing Me Softly (previously published as Live and Let Die), chosen as “Thriller of the Month” (May 2013) by e-thriller.com and a “2013 Top Read” by OOSA Online Book Club, Sweet Little Lies, Every Breath You Take, and Missing You: A Companion Novella to Every Breath You Take). When she’s not writing, she’s watching Bravo TV or Investigation Discovery, reading, or cooking. Sloane resides in Chicago.
To connect with Bianca:
www.biancasloane.com
Bianca@BiancaSloane.com
Bianca Sloane, And When I Die
