A local woman missing- Mary Kubica

“I’m not feeling well.” It’s not a lie. Guilt isn’t only emotional. It
manifests itself in very physical ways. My head aches. My back
aches. My stomach is in knots, and I’m constipated. I could never
stay focused through class, much less make it through without that
overwhelming urge to vomit or cry. I spend so much time ruminating
about what Bea and I did that night, second-guessing the choices we
made, the choices I made. I can’t get away from it. I’m obsessed. My
mind is in a constant state of flux. I can think of nothing else but what
happened that night. I don’t sleep. I barely eat.
“You need to act normal, Meredith. Normal.”
I’m not particularly religious. Josh, the kids and I go to church on
Easter and Christmas, but that’s all. Still, there’s a Bible verse that’s
been running never-ending through my mind since sometime last
night. The truth will set you free.
It sounds so simple. I make the mistake of telling Bea.
“We’ll make the police see it was an accident, that you didn’t mean
to hit Shelby,” I say. “It was unpreventable. They’ll understand.”
Bea stares at me, incredulous. “Have you lost your damn mind?”
she snaps. “They’ll just fucking understand? I didn’t step on a bug. I
killed a person. We, Meredith,” she says, “we killed a person.”
I plead with her. “Please, Bea. I can’t go on living like this.”
“You have to,” she says. “You have to figure it out.” She takes a
step closer. “I was drunk, Meredith. And you knowingly permitted me
to drive the car home. It’s your fault as much as it is mine. You’ll go
to jail, too, you know, if we’re ever found out. How do you think Josh
and the kids would fare while you’re rotting away in jail for years?”
I’ve thought about this. I have an answer ready. “It’s not like they
can do a breathalyzer now. It’s too late to prove anything and, if you
weren’t drinking, it’s a much lesser offense, like a misdemeanor.”
For a second she just stares. And then, “Are you really that dumb?
Since when did you turn into a lawyer, anyway?” I see now that Bea
isn’t hamstrung by the same guilt as me.
The Bea I know isn’t cruel. She’s compassionate. She’s outspoken
but kind. This Bea is scared. “We’re not just talking manslaughter
anymore, or a misdemeanor,” she says. “Because we also carried
her out to the woods and hid her. That’s concealment of a homicide.”