The shouting started again. Something shattered against the opposite side of the wall. Six months ago, Heather would have called the cops, but by now, she understood nothing would be done once they got to the duplex. Scott was one of their own. There would be no arrest.

And the next day, when Heather saw Annie at the mailbox or in the parking lot, there would be a fresh bruise on her face.

Heather wanted to help Annie, but somehow anytime she talked to her neighbor, the words never came. Annie stood taller than Heather did, with long blond hair and a trim, firm body. She often wore sunglasses, which camouflaged bruises and masked her reaction to anything Heather said. So Heather usually mumbled something banal, and Annie went on about her business.

            More shouting. Scott’s voice, hurling obscenities at his wife. Annie sobbing. Heather turned up the stereo. It made the noise tolerable, but her stomach settled into a hard knot. Only six months left on the lease, she reminded herself.

There was a break between songs. She could hear them: “You don’t have the nerve!” “Scott, I mean it.” “Pull the fucking trigger! You know you wa—”

The gunshot sounded, and the next song began. Heather fumbled to turn off the stereo. Silence.

An abrupt knock penetrated Heather’s horror. Trembling, Annie moaned: “I shot Scott. I held his gun to his head and I shot him.”

Next door, the mess was profound. Using a napkin, Heather placed the gun in Scott’s hand so the police would find gunpowder residue. Back to Annie, waiting at Heather’s. “Call 911. Tell them your husband is drunk and threatening to shoot himself.” Annie made the call.

When the police arrived, they had their story straight: While arguing, Scott threatened to kill himself, and threw Annie out of the apartment. Annie had used Heather’s phone. When she’d hung up, they heard the gunshot. Scott was dead.

It was simple. It would work. And it did.

At Scott’s wake, Heather heard two of Scott’s fellow policemen speaking in low tones, saying Annie had always encouraged Scott to drink. Tears burst from Heather’s eyes as she remembered Annie’s pleas for Scott to stop. She turned away, silent.

Later, Scott’s father and brother confronted Annie, accusing her of coaxing Scott off the wagon. Unable to listen, Heather left.

Annie bought a Porsche with the insurance money. New jewels appeared on her neck, and an attractive young man moved in with her. Annie avoided her now, but from the letters and brochures that came to their communal mailbox, Heather knew Annie was planning a trip to Buenos Aires.

Annie left in the middle of the night. Heather awoke to find two envelopes pushed under her door, with a note: “Thanks. Annie.” Ten thousand dollars.

It was then she knew.

And again, she knew better than to call the police. This time, for a different reason.

Copyright 2006 Amy Frushour Kelly. All rights reserved.

Reproduction by any means prohibited without prior written consent.