The Voice

He was cute, Amy thought, in kind of a harmless, puppy dog way. Like a golden retriever. He had the same energy, too. He bounced on his heels in time to the music as he talked to her, his drink sloshing around in his hand. He offered her a crooked grin and another martini.

“Why don’t we have some coffee instead?” Amy moved closer, running a hand lightly over his arm. “I’ve got a great espresso machine at my place. Might keep us up all night...”

His eyes widened at this, and he seemed pleasantly surprised. “Lead the way.”

Later, Amy leaned against the headboard, knees pulled up and supporting her sketchbook. She dragged the pencil lazily across the paper, shading the hollow under Philip’s cheekbone. He shifted in his sleep. He reached over and squeezed her thigh. She liked him. Really liked him.

She’d been stupid and had most of her coffee-- Philip had a greater interest in her and left his cup full on the counter. Now she found herself wide awake at three a.m., sketching her lover as he rested beside her.

“I know what you did, you know.”

Amy jumped. She looked over at Philip, where the voice had sounded from, but he was sleeping quietly, undisturbed by the words that had slipped from his slightly parted lips.

“What?” she whispered.

“I said, I know what you did.”

She smiled, setting the papers on the nightstand and leaning closer. “And what am I meant to have done?”

“You murdered Helen Rogers.”

Amy jumped back, a hand pressed tightly over her mouth. Her blood had gone beyond turning cold-- it felt as if it had left her body entirely. She’d done her best to keep the thought of what happened to Helen out of her mind for the past six months.

“This is some kind of joke, right?” She reached out to wake Philip.

“You’d better not,” the voice said. It wasn’t his voice, she realized. She didn’t know it at all. “You’re not supposed to wake up sleep walkers.”

“You’re not a sleep walker. You’re just talking.”

“For now.”

Amy pulled the sheet up to her chest and held it to herself. She could leave. She could leave the apartment and walk around the park or something until Philip woke up, and then she could ask him to go home and never call her again. But there was a problem.

He knew about Helen. Or, at least, a part of him did.

“Who are you?”

“I’m just the voice inside some guy you met at the bar a few hours ago.” There was an undertone that almost sounded like he was snickering. “You know the kind-- you all have a voice. Most of the time it only lives in your head. But not me. I live everywhere, I see everything.”

He said “everything” with purpose.

“But I didn’t kill Helen. She was my friend.” Amy found she was trying to make herself seem smaller, less intimidating.

“Liar!” the voice roared, but Philip hardly moved at all. “I know what you did. You can’t fool me.”

“She aspirated on her vomit,” Amy tried to explain. “It was awful. But I wasn’t even there.”

“You got her drunk. You turned her onto her back. You’re a nurse. You knew what would happen.” The voice got up, seemed to pace around the room as it spoke.

“I was drunk, too. It was an accident.” Amy knew that was a lie, but she hoped the voice didn’t.

The voice rushed at her then, screaming. “You knew! You killed her because she slept with that idiot you left a month later! A month!” There was a pause, as if the voice was collecting itself. “It begs the question: what was the point?”

“There was no point. It was an accident.” Her lawyer’s words circled in her mind, deny, deny, deny.

It sighed heavily. “We saw it. We saw you watch her die.”

A choked noise came from her throat. “That doesn’t prove anything. It doesn’t prove anything. You’re just a voice. You’re not even a person.”

“Confess, Amy. Confess or kill us. Can you do that? Can you bear the weight of another life on your conscience?”

“I’m not going to kill you. I’m not a killer.”

“Yes, yes, one painting doesn’t make you a painter and all that. Except it does. And if you want to get away with what you’ve done, you’re going to have to kill again. Or I’ll walk Philip’s sleeping body into a police station and tell them what we saw.”

Amy’s mind raced. Would that stand up in court? Surely not.

“What will it be?”

Amy’s fingers trembled as she turned and gripped the pillow behind her. She placed it gently over Philip’s peaceful face. He really was beautiful. She wished she’d had more time to study his features.

She pressed firmly, shifting her weight over him as he began to struggle.

“Yes!” The voice cried, gasping for air. “This is the only way!”

At some point-- she wasn’t sure how long she’d held for-- he stilled. The voice stopped. She relaxed against the headboard again.

In the new silence, she heard it. A small voice sounding from Philip’s phone, propped up on the other nightstand.

“Phil? Oh my God! Phil! I called the cops! Please hold on! Phil!”

Amy turned the phone around. A woman sobbed on the screen.

He’d face-timed someone before he went to sleep.

Amy dropped the phone. The screen shattered when it hit the ground. The woman cried out from the near-muted speaker. “I saw everything! The cops are on their way! Oh, God! You’re psychotic!”

Amy went to the window. Red and blue lights began to flicker in the distance, growing ever closer. She rested her head on the cool glass. She wondered how she got here. It didn’t matter, she supposed. It was done.

Obituaries

PHILIP MICHAEL ROGERS

ORANGE PARK – Philip M. Rogers, 25, died unexpectedly March 22, 2018. He was born February15, 1993, in Orange Park, the son of Michael R. and Rachel Elizabeth (Lee) Rogers.

Philip graduated from Orange Park High School, Class of 2011. Following graduation, he volunteered on several mission trips. Philip enjoyed reading, the arts, and ventriloquism.

He was predeceased by a sister, Helen. Surviving are his parents, sister, Mackenna, and neice Harper.

A service of remembrance will be held 11 a.m. Friday, March 24 at Pine Grove Remembrance center, 1347 Kingsley Avenue. Internment will be at Mount Hope Cemetery, Orange Park. Those who wish to remember Philip in a special way may send donations to the Orange Park Baptist Mission Program he was so passionate about. Arrangements by Memorial Alternatives, 205 Blanding Blvd., Orange Park.