By Jorge Gill

Copyright © 2017 Jorge Gill

All rights reserved.

This book is a work of fiction and except in the case of historical fact, any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

DEDICATION

For

My lovely daughters Samantha, Charlene and Paris

1030hrs 4th July

She was only thirty nine years old, but Jeannette Grey felt that her life was just slipping away. Things were not how she had predicted. She was going to be a model, wrong. Then she was going to be an actress, wrong. She was going to travel the world, maybe live in a country that was summer all round, wrong, in fact most of her lifelong dreams had been wrong, or crushed or just plain and simple impossible to achieve.

‘You have everything.’ ‘You should be happy.’ ‘I don’t know what you are complaining about, your life is perfect,’ she had been told, numerous times, by her mother, by her brother, by her friends and anyone else who would care to approach the subject with her.

She also knew that they were right. She did have everything that any housewife could wish for. A large house, two healthy children, one of each. Both doing well academically. A husband who loved her and their children, albeit boringly. A fancy car, a brand new BMW convertible, three holidays a year, gym membership, store cards, credit cards, she could shop until she dropped, but still it wasn’t enough.

Once upon a time it was her that was going places, travelling the world. She had owned her own fancy car then, not a house admittedly but she had holidays, not three a year admittedly, but she had been happy then. Maybe she was just going through a mid-life crises? Maybe that was why she had her secrets? Secrets that made her sometimes feel guilty, but only sometimes. Most of the time they made her feel alive.

Today was her birthday, one year away from the big four zero and she was going to create more secrets. Two more to be precise. She would stop creating them soon, but today she deserved them. It was her birthday and her husband, Gary, had gone to work. Important meetings! Her children had gone to college; yes, they had sang happy birthday to her this morning, but impatiently, in a rush, as if they couldn’t wait to get out of the house, into their adventure of youth. So today she would create more secrets, a special treat for herself.

She stood in front of the floor to ceiling mirrored wardrobe in her bedroom and studied herself, standing first one way, then the other. Swishing her shoulder length blonde hair as she moved. She held her curves well, but could pinch more than an inch. She was wearing black underwear, an Elomi Maria strapless Basque, made from stretch lace and a smooth satin like material, suspenders and matching lace stockings. Sexy and expensive. She admired herself for a moment longer and then came that feeling of guilt. It was her birthday, she would most definitely be spoilt later tonight and here she was, about to be bad again.

The doorbell rang, a soft melodic chime. He was here. The tingling sensation of excitement took over. She looked at herself again, pouting, posing like Marilyn Monroe, knees together, hands on them. She had been curvaceous, Marilyn Monroe, some even said that she had been a size fourteen.

The doorbell sounded again, he was impatient, he wanted her, and why shouldn’t he? She hurried down the stairs, and across the hallway to the door. She could see him through the frosted glass, and thought of his young toned body. Muscles that would soon be pressing down on her, with urgency, taking her soul, spirit and body.

She opened the door, head pointed towards the ceiling, still pouting, one hand on her hip, the other stretched way above her head against the edge of the door. No fear of being seen by neighbours. The house stood back, away from anyone’s view.

He walked in, his heart pounding, his temperature rising, shaking, eyes wide open, adrenaline pumped, and eyes only for her. He kicked the heavy oak door shut behind him. She wrapped her arms around his neck loosely, eyes shut. Her heart pounded, her temperature high, shaking with excitement.

He trembled as he pulled his hands out of his pockets, octopus arms, that he immediately wrapped around her size ten body, full of doubts, fear and confusion, a mix of emotions swamping through him.

Then he did it, while they kissed, holding the back of her head tight against his shoulder, he stabbed her, once, twice, three times, then he lost count as she collapsed. He didn’t stop, but carried on stabbing and slashing in a frenzied attack. The twelve inch blade plunging in and out and up and down, cutting out deep chunks of soft flesh, blood spreading across her Elomi Maria, spurting over the brightly painted smooth walls, staining white glossed skirting, and spilling over the deep pile, cream carpet that covered the floor. He carried on, even when she collapsed onto the floor, her spirit and soul long gone, just to make sure. He had no room for miracles, there could be no doubt, he had to be certain. He needed her to be dead.

1230hrs 4th July

Giovanni Bianchi sat in his white MX-5, trembling. The engine was switched off. The car smelt of hair product and aftershave and freshener and sweat.

He looked down at his blood soaked hands. Then at the fourth finger of his left hand. The nine carat gold band, wrapped around it, was also coated with blood. Then he looked down at his black Levi jeans and his black Ducati t-shirt, but they were no longer plain black. They were bleached with a very dark red, blood red, Jeanette Grey’s blood. His Forziera black leather shoes were no different. Blood sinking into the soft leather.

He didn’t know what to do, he wasn’t a criminal, he was a lover. Rational thinking had no time for emotion, in particular, negative emotions, which right at that moment had completely taken over Giovanni Bianchi.

So he did nothing, he just sat there, in his car, locked in his garage, at the back of his house, where his wife never ventured, staring at the blood. Repeating over and over in his head. ‘Why did you do it? Why did you go there? You’ve ruined everything. Why?’