He's got it coming: Love is the best revenge Read online

  Contents

  Copyright

  Author's note

  Thank you

  Title page

  Language explanation

  Map of Norway

  Dedication

  Prologue

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  33

  34

  35

  36

  SUPPORT THE AUTHOR

  Amalie

  GRAPHIC DESIGN

  MOM

  THE POSTER

  MAY 17th

  WILLIAM

  THE SKAR FAMILY

  WHISKEY

  DAD

  Copyright © 2020 Alexandra Winter

  Alexandra Winter asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form, including electronic or mechanical, without written permission from the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual events, locales, or actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  The book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only.

  This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the author’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published without a similar condition, including its condition, being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  Thank you for respecting the author’s work.

  Every effort has been made to obtain the necessary permissions with reference to copyright material, both illustrative and quoted. I apologize for any omissions in this respect and will be pleased to make the appropriate acknowledgments in any future editions.

  Published: Alexandra Winter 2020

  Editing: Sheila Korol

  Proofreading: Sheila Korol

  Cover design: Germancreative

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN: 978-82-691506-4-3

  ISBN-13: 978-82-691506-3-6

  AUTHOR'S NOTE

  He’s got it coming is the first book about Daniella. It’s a standalone novel which you are welcome to read on its own or as the first in a series. It does mention a character from Let Go, so I’ve included an excerpt of Let Go at the end.

  He’s got it coming concludes at 81% on your device.

  Follow the author on:

  Instagram: @alexandra_winter_official

  Facebook: Alexandra Winter (@alexandrawintr)

  or sign up for updates at www.alexandrawinter.com

  Happy reading!

  Alexandra Winter

  THANK YOU

  To my beta readers! Thank you Wesley, Monika, Jen, RaHel, Brian, Les, Leanna, Amanda, Val, Victoria, Abbe, and everyone who’s helped improve this story with their feedback and support. I’m humbled by how generous you are with your time, and honest feedback.

  Thank you Sabina for insight into the world of hacking, and brilliant ideas shared over sangria on the beach in Foz, Porto.

  Thank you Stine for suggesting Melvin’s name on Instagram, and to Katelyn for entering the competition on Instagram to have your name in the story.

  Thank you, Knut, for encouraging me, listening, and contributing to the story.

  Thank you to my readers, for your encouraging words, for sharing my books on social media, and for your supporting reviews.

  LANGUAGE EXPLANATION

  Dear reader.

  Norwegian locations in this book use the letters Æ, Ø and Å.

  Since the English language does not have these vowels, here’s how to pronounce them:

  Æ (æ) :pronounced as the a in the English word bad.

  Ø (ø) :pronounced as the i in the English word bird.

  Å (å) :pronounced as the combination of the two letters aw in the word yawn.

  For Knut.

  A gunshot reverberated through the house, feet rushed towards the sound. The door squeaked open, revealing a wall colored red in blood.

  1

  Rain splashes a drumroll against the window, building toward the final storm of my life.

  Tonight is the night I die.

  My phone rings, and the grief counselor’s name, Cecilia, shows on the screen. I turn on silent mode and tuck it back into my pocket.

  I told you I’m not coming back to your support group.

  I waited to pack Isac’s clothes until today, kept his scent with me, locked inside the closet to draw in his aroma when the loneliness left me weeping on the floor. Memories of his strong arms carrying me in here, and throwing me into bed, us laughing, flash before me. I’m careful not to wrinkle his shirts, stacking them one by one in the last box with his belongings. Full, I close the lid, but reopen it, wanting to feel his presence for as long as possible.

  For weeks, I’ve planned tonight to relieve my parents of packing and sorting out my things once I’m gone. When I was ten, the news reported on a man’s suicide, and my brothers argued that his just leaving without first sorting out his belongings made him the most selfish person in the world. Although my parents disagreed back then, after I’m finished tonight, they’ll only have to sell my apartment, the rest is packed and ready.

  Outside, large puddles in the street splash as a car plows through them. Tires squeal as if the car is swerving out of control. The sound takes me back to my husband’s car accident and the force needed to bend the metal around that tree.

  December 14, 2017.

  The worst day.

  Were the police right, and you steered away from an animal? It makes no sense. We’re in the city, and they didn’t find any real answers. Why were you even driving through Sagene that night? Griffenfeldts Road isn’t on your way home. If you had chosen another route, you’d be here holding me. We could light the fire, I’d let you win at chess, and we’d be happy. It doesn’t matter how many times I’ve asked myself these questions these past two years, I’ll never find the answers.

  The car outside gains traction and rounds the corner.

  With no music blasting from the adjacent bar, I should have gone with my original plan and put our song on. I wouldn’t have heard that car. Still, music would have increased the chances of Mr. Nerli finding me too soon and calling an ambulance.

  You were the only person who needed me. I’m a burden to Mom and Dad, my brothers, everyone else now that I’m no longer happy. The aftermath of my death won’t be.

  Loud meows sound from the street below my two story apartment, and I wait to hear my upstairs neighbors let Melvin in.

  They’re always home on Fridays, especially if it’s raining. I should hear the staircase creak by now.

  Melvin’s a child to them, and through my three years living here, and cat sitting, to me too. But, he can’t be in here with me when I pass.

  Ten minutes later, his meowing is breaking my shattered heart.

  I can’t leave him out in the
rain.

  I put on Isac’s wool sweater. His scent hits me; honey, fresh lime, and oak. Home. “You are my home, where I belong.”

  Melvin meows, determined to be heard.

  What on earth is going on? He hates the rain, and they would never leave him out in it. He’s got his own raincoat, for God’s sake.

  Out in the hallway, no sounds come from the top apartment. The broad staircase creaks as I ascend two floors toward the neighbor’s door, but nobody’s home to answer.

  I let Melvin in, and he darts past me. With his pointy ears and twenty-seven pounds, he’s more a hairy mountain lion than a domestic cat but now resembles a huge wet mop.

  I’ll meet the Nerlis out in the hall when they return home. It’ll be fine.

  I place Melvin on the third step of our black spiral staircase where coats and jackets once hung underneath, pat him dry while glancing into the open floor plan to the three envelopes on the table and my list.

  Back in my bedroom, Melvin eyes the box on the floor containing Isac’s clothes, bushy tail wagging with mischief. He crouches, tightening his body like a coiled spring.

  I anticipate his desire to jump in. I close the box. “Oh no, you don’t.” But, I understand the urge. “I’d wear all his clothes tonight if they wouldn’t be ruined.”

  Deflated, I carry Isac’s box into the guest room. I mark it ‘Donation’ and place it on top of my other donation boxes filled with computer equipment and spare phones. My ethical hacking diplomas are in a box marked ‘Mom and Dad.’

  My hands shake as I curl my fingers into fists to gain control and whisper to Melvin, “This is for the best.”

  The old wooden floor creaks beneath my bare feet when I enter the kitchen. My body shivers to keep warm, and white fog spills from my mouth.

  I get the last two cans of cat food out of the fridge. One for Melvin now. The other I leave open on the counter knowing he’ll lead Mr. Nerli straight to it, and me tomorrow morning. The poor old man.

  By now, it’s eleven o’clock in the evening. They should have been home ages ago.

  I turn my focus back to the refrigerator. Only two items stand alone on the shelf now: the vodka and my paper bag of pills.

  This will be my third time ever taking pills. The two previous were for pain and cramps, so I’m hoping for a quick effect tonight.

  Research these past months told me that the body releases fluids once dead. The stiff sheet of plastic I placed under the dining table to protect the floor crinkles beneath my bare feet. Compared to the warm and fuzzy rug that used to be here, the sheet looks intense, like a serial killer is preparing his secret room. If I had a bathtub, this would be much easier.

  Away from its place on the windowsill, our wedding picture stands alone at the dining table. I pull the chair out and sit, take the photo and hold it to my heart. The freezing temperature sinks into my bones.

  My lips shiver as I whisper, “Soon, we’ll be together.”

  I twitch when Melvin rubs against my legs.

  I set the wedding photo back on the table, lift his front paws on my thigh, lean down and bury my face in his fur. My voice trembles. “You’re the only one not telling me to move on.”

  Melvin purrs, sounding more like a pigeon than a cat. I lift him on my lap, hold him tight, feeling his body vibrate.

  He puts his forehead to my cheek, and tears dampen the white fur on top of his head.

  There’s a bang from the entrance door in the hallway. Mrs. and Mr. Nerli are finally home.

  Thank God.

  Melvin jumps to the floor and finishes his food while I rush out to meet them, leaving the door just open enough for Melvin to squeeze through and them unable to get a glimpse of the plastic under the dining table.

  “Good evening.” Mrs. Nerli closes her umbrella and removes her yellow rain hat. Behind her is Mr. Nerli, standing straight in his usual posture leaning forward with his hands resting behind his back.

  I’ve played the part of a happy woman looking forward to a fake vacation long enough and slip into that role. “Good evening.” I force a smile.

  Melvin’s fur tickles me as he slides between my legs to greet them, licking his mouth. I shut the door behind me.

  “She spoils you,” Mrs. Nerli tells him, smiling at me. “And we love her for it, don’t we?”

  Mr. Nerli brushes water off his coat, seeming concerned. “Yes, well…we had an unscheduled errand to attend to. We do apologize if he’s disturbed you.”

  Thankful they’re back to take him off my hands, I don’t have it in me to make them feel bad about it. “Not at all.”

  Mr. Nerli puts an arm around his wife. “You’re more than welcome to join us for dinner tomorrow.”

  I give the same apologetic smile I’ve given these last two years, but before I can excuse myself, Mrs. Nerli cuts in. “Daniella is departing on her holiday tomorrow, dear.”

  “Of course,” Mr. Nerli says. “We tried the hummus you left for us with the leftover groceries. What a treat. Thank you.”

  I should never have lied to them. “Happy you like it.” Lifting Melvin, I fight back the tears. He purrs as I cuddle him for the last time.

  When I set him back down, Mrs. Nerli gasps at my bare feet. “Oh, darling. Get back inside, so you don’t catch a cold.” She hugs me and whispers, “Our home is open anytime. You are missed, you know.”

  I clear my throat when she lets go and surprise both myself and her husband when I lunge forward, hugging him. He should know I’m sorry for what’s to come. More a handshaker than a hugger, Mr. Nerli stiffens. A second later, he relaxes and lays his hands on my back as he whispers. “You’re always welcome.”

  Watching them walk hand in hand up to their apartment with Melvin breaks my heart. That should’ve been Isac and me.

  Goodbye.

  I wait to hear them lock their door.

  With the front door open, I twist the lock to ensure the bolt is out to keep the door from closing. I rest it on the frame, ready for Melvin to push it open tomorrow morning, looking for treats. Mr. Nerli always walks down with Melvin to let him out while Mrs. Nerli prepares their morning coffee. Melvin will lead him to me, knowing I’ve provided an open can of food for him. The sooner I’m found, the less damage I’ll do to the apartment, and to poor Mr. Nerli.

  In the cupboard above the sink, six crystal glasses your parents gave us as a wedding gift remain. We didn’t care that they were not dishwasher friendly, and now two are broken.

  I take the vodka bottle, pills, a chipped glass to the dining table, and pull our wedding picture in front of me. Like a daytime TV drunk, I pour the clear liquid.

  Is this what I want Mr. Nerli to smell when he finds me?

  No.

  If my parents have to identify me, I don’t want to reek of alcohol.

  The chair scrapes as I stand and head back into the kitchen to fill a second glass, this one with water.

  Back at the table, I put six motion sickness pills on my tongue and wash them down. According to my research, I must sedate my body’s urge to survive, and this step is necessary to prevent me from throwing up.

  I set my phone timer for twenty minutes and make sure it’s still in silent mode to ensure nobody disturbs me. Cecilia has called three times now. She’ll get all her answers in my letter to her. Soon, the pills will kick in. All I have to do is wait.

  I kiss Isac’s face in our picture.

  I thought about writing a letter to the friends I had before he died, but decided not to. During the first six months, they pretended to empathize. They couldn’t cope with my sadness and slowly trickled away, changing from close friends, to people I once knew, to strangers I wished I’d never met. Now, almost two years after his death, I’m glad they’re out of my life. Real friends would have understood. Victoria was the first to show me I couldn’t count on even my best friend.

  I double-check the addresses on the envelopes.

  My boss and my team of hackers at the bank. They deserve a better ma
nager, and should know they couldn’t have changed this, and that I’m sorry to say goodbye this way after twelve years.

  Cecilia. One meeting was far more than enough at her grief group. She runs it like a military operation, forcing me to sign contracts to join, and bring a peace lily home to keep alive. The whole thing was weird, but the plant still sits on my kitchen counter. She tried to help me though, and still tries, so I owe her thanks.

  Shuffling the support group envelope to the back of the pile reveals the third addressed to my parents and brothers. It contains one last letter with my will, bank account details, and all my passwords. I’ve set aside my savings to cover the costs of my death.

  My brothers’ advice to me, as usual, was to stay positive, smile, and get on with it. As if I have a life worth getting on with. We don’t speak much since they married and moved out of Oslo, so my goodbye to them was shorter.

  I didn’t just lose the man I love—the foundation of my life was ripped out from underneath my feet. Like a house, Isac held two walls, and I supported the last two. I can’t lift four walls to rebuild it alone. It’s not possible. I’m no longer the carefree, happy daughter my parents love, and I never will be again. After tonight, I won’t be a problem.

  I pick up a pen and check off the box for letters on my list. Then I check off the last line, packing.

  The fatigue of the medicine has set in when the timer goes off. Twenty minutes has passed, and my body is ready.

  Swirling the water in the crystal water glass, I’m happy that I turned off all the heat yesterday. Even though the temperature was warm three days ago, like any unpredictable August, it’s ideally cold at only forty degrees Fahrenheit. According to the weather forecast, it’ll stay cold, and my decaying body won’t be too bad tomorrow morning, which eases my bad conscience for Mr. Nerli.