A local woman missing- Mary Kubica

“Write this down,” she says. “Write Delilah is safe. She is fine.”
I look at Bea, not understanding. “Just do it,” she says when I
hesitate. “Write down Delilah is safe. She is fine.” I’m not quick to do
it. Why would she want me to write that down? She reaches for the
knife in the back pocket of her jeans, holding it to me. “I’m not
messing around, Meredith. I need you to write it down. If you do what
I say, I’ll go and get Delilah for you. I’ll bring her here. But you have
to do this for me first.”
“Okay,” I say, acquiescing. I write the words down, because of her
promise to bring Delilah to me and because of the knife at my throat.
I don’t know that I have another option. All I can think is that Bea
plans to leave us in this dingy motel for the month that we’ve paid
for. She’s going to make Josh think we’ve run away, which will buy
her time to figure out what to do. It’s not a bad plan. I could survive a
month here.
What I don’t understand is why Bea didn’t bring Delilah and me at
the same time. She must have a reason. But maybe the two of us
together was too much to manage.
When I’m through, I hold the paper out to her to take. “Set it on the
dresser,” she says. I do. “You understand, this needs to look like a
suicide,” Bea says.
I hear her words. They reach my ears, but they don’t get
interpreted by my brain. They don’t make it that far. I don’t have time
to comprehend what she’s said. I don’t have time to react.
A second later I feel the excruciating sting of the knife blade slicing
across my wrists. I scream, backing away from her.
“I’m sorry to be so direct,” she says, following. “But you did this to
yourself, Meredith. If only you could have kept your mouth shut, this
wouldn’t be happening. I warned you. I told you to just let it go, to
forget about what happened that night. You couldn’t. I never wanted
to hurt you or Delilah,” she says. “You left me no choice. I told you so
many times—I can’t go to jail. What did you expect me to do?”
She lashes out. Again the blade scores my wrist. It bleeds. I press
my palm to it to try and control the bleeding. I try backing away from
her in the room, but the room is small, boxy. Bea, with the knife,
stands between me and the door. There’s no way out. The motel is