Rachel's Confession

My hands are shaking as I write. My husband is having an affair with one of his former students. She is not even old enough to drink. While I cannot prove it, I believe he is with her right now, scheming about how he to get rid of me and make it look like an accident. It would not be the first time Logan killed someone. 

 I cannot go to the police because who would believe that the town’s favorite high school teacher and devoted alderman is a murderer? He serves as a deacon at First Baptist Church. He played Jesus on Good Friday, for Christ’s sake. They do not get to see Logan’s true face. The town of Peace sees Logan Arwood as the embodiment of traditional family values. Logan makes sure only I get to see his emotional, angry outbursts behind closed doors. To everyone else, he is the perfect husband, and I am his shy, introverted wife. No one knows how I walk on eggshells around him, anxious and always trying to anticipate Logan’s mood. 

My daughter, Heather, saw it and always asked why I didn’t leave him. I could never tell her the truth because she would never forgive me for it, and I would lose her forever. Thankfully, she escaped Logan and this small southern town when she went to college. 

Now that it is just me and Logan, his moods are darker, and his outbursts are getting worse. He can’t just leave, and neither can I. We created this little hell for ourselves twenty years ago, when Logan killed my husband, Richard Forrester. Even if I told someone what he did, Logan would somehow twist it and convince everyone I did it. 

So, no. I cannot go to the police. They are his friends and his buddies. 

 There is no one to confide in, not even a therapist. Logan plays golf with them. Even if I wanted to confess to a priest, I couldn’t find one in this southern protestant town. All I have is this journal to pour out my confession.

What happened to Richard was my fault. It happened so long ago; it is like a remembered nightmare instead of a memory. 

The night of Richard’s “accident” was the night he found out I was having an affair with Logan. He came home early and caught us together in bed. My heart broke seeing the look of disgust and anger on his face. Without a word, he left the bedroom. Ashamed and scared that I would lose him, I donned on my black robe and chased after him. 

Richard stood outside of Heather’s bedroom door. I tried to talk to him, telling him it was a mistake, to please forgive me. In an icy voice, he said he wanted a divorce and full custody of our daughter. I put myself between him and the door, pleading for him to forgive me. His face was hard as marble as he told me it was over between us. He didn’t see Logan rushing up behind him.

In one fluid moment, Logan wrapped his leather belt around Richard’s neck and yanked him backward. Richard clawed at his throat as he writhed against Logan, who was taller and much heavier. 

I screamed for Logan to stop, but he ignored me as he dragged Richard down the stairs with a sickening thud.

Heather woke and started to cry. 

I went to the railing, looking down on them at the landing. Logan had not let go, and Richard’s face had turned purplish red. “You’re killing him,” I screamed. 

“Want me to let him go?” Logan said as he looked up at me. 

“Yes, let him go.” 

Logan led Richard like he was a dog on a leash, closer to the top of the stairs. Clenching the railing, I shook my head no. A smile played on Logan’s lips. With one hard thrust, he shoved Richard down the hardwood stairs. The hollow thumping sound mingled with Heather’s cries seemed to go on forever and would haunt my dreams later. 

I ran after him, but stopped when I reached the landing. The walls were covered with splattered and smeared blood. I asked Logan what had done, but he brushed past me. His unbuttoned white shirt billowed out as he hurried down the steps. 

Richard lay at the bottom of the stairs with his arm flopped across his chest. Blood stained his blond hair, but he moved. He struggled to sit up. At first, I thought Logan was kneeling to check Richard’s pulse, but he climbed on top of him, straddling Richard. I couldn’t see what he was doing, but Richard kicked and bucked under Logan’s weight. And I knew he planned to finish it. 

I crept down the stairs, tiptoeing around the blood.

Richard’s head lolled to the side. His blue eyes stared at me, accusing me. Cursing me. I stared back, waiting for him to blink, to move, to sit up.

Logan shouted for me to put on clothes. I went back upstairs. Heather’s cries were like sirens going off in my head, but I put on a sweater and jeans before going to her. 

I picked her up and rocked her in my arms, trying to soothe her. 

Logan appeared in the doorway. His white shirt and hands were bloody. He had a crazed look in his eyes that made me wonder if I was next. 

I said, “We’re going to go to prison,” as I put Heather’s pacifier in her mouth.  

“We won’t go to prison as long as you keep it simple when you call 9-1-1.” 

 My heart burned in my chest with fear and anger, but most of all, my heart broke for Heather. 

“The police aren’t stupid. They will see what you did.” I couldn’t look at Logan, so I stared at Heather’s face instead.

“Say that he fell. That is all you have to say,” Logan said. 

“You killed him. With a belt.” My throat closed up as I fought back tears. 

He drew closer to me, looking down at the bundle in my arms. “Do you want to lose Heather? If you do this right, you will have it all. The house, Heather, and me.” He kissed my forehead and said, “I love you. I did this so we can be together.” He waited for me to say something as he slid his belt through his pant loops. “You do want us to be together, don’t you?” 

Tears ran down my face, blurring my vision.

“It’s up to you how you do this,” he said, as he buckled his belt, “but if you tell them I was here, I will make sure you go down with me.” He left me to go back to the master bedroom to collect his shoes. When he came back, he told me to make the call. “Remember, keep it simple.” 

Heather stirred and stretched in my arms. What had I done? In my foolishness, I had left her fatherless and with an uncertain future. How could I be a mother if I were in prison?

When I called 9-1-1, my tears were real and my voice shook with fear.

Heather’s fingers curled around my finger as she slept in my arms while I waited for the paramedics to come. I stayed in Heather’s nursery, not daring to go downstairs because I didn’t want to see Richard; to see what I had done.

Heather didn’t stir until the paramedics showed up. Her high-pitched wail pierced my heart. It was as if she knew something was wrong. Her deep blue eyes watched my face, pleading for me to fix it. 

As the paramedics worked on Richard downstairs, I wondered if he might still be alive. They would bring him back to life and he would tell them what I did.

Heather laid her head on my shoulder and fell back to sleep. My sweater was wet from her snot and tears. A dull ache wrapped around my lower back, but I continued to hold her, scared the police would come up to arrest me.

They came upstairs to tell me they had pronounced Richard dead. 

Heather grew heavier as she fell into a deep, yet troubled sleep. The police took my statement and asked if anyone else had been home when the accident happened. Images of Logan choking Richard played out in my head. For a split moment, I almost told them the truth because I was sure they already knew, but I told the police officers no. 

They determined Richard’s death to be an accident. An autopsy was not done, and I believe Richard had something to do with that by calling in some favor. In case anyone in the future might want to reopen an investigation, I did as Logan suggested. I had Richard’s body cremated. His ashes were interred in my family’s private mausoleum. 

Six months later, I married Logan Arwood, and he moved into what had been Richard’s house, raising Heather as if she were his own.

 For twenty years, Richard’s death was the secret that kept us together (till death do us part), knowing if one betrayed the other, it would be mutual destruction. 

So, if you are reading my journal, it means I am dead or missing. All I have is this confession and I doubt it is enough to convict him, but I can hope and pray someone will believe me.

Heather, if you are reading this, I hope you can forgive me.