"MURDER SHE ROTE" (Part III)
- Gabrielle Marie Kelley
- Oct 4
- 5 min read
Updated: Nov 4
In the heart of Dallas, a young, successful writer is captivated by her own dark narrative. Haunted by a troubled past and ensnared in an even more dangerous present, she walks a fine line between victim, vigilante, and something far more sinister. As she crafts stories of revenge and redemption, her real-life actions blur the boundaries of morality. Is she a hero—or a cold-blooded killer? Follow her gripping escapades and try to unravel the truth before it's too late. The only question is: what will you believe?
CONTENT WARNING: This story explores themes of sexual violence. Reader discretion is advised.
(TAP PLAY TO LISTEN)
Before Bruno could turn off the engine, he received a FaceTime. As he stared at his phone, irritated, Veronica could see the image of the caller. The woman's smiling face appeared as 'Bae'. Two little chubby faces were pressed against hers. Her children. Their children. On his left index finger—a silver band. His wife was calling, and he was ignoring her. Typical.
He swiped the call away and grunted an expletive.
"I gotta take this. I get off at midnight—want me to stop by, then?"
"I'll have my bags in and unpacked by then." she said, smiling and feigning sympathy.
Realizing he had dropped the ball on an opportunity that would most likely not present itself again, he sat back and sighed. Disappointment and disgust shone on his face as if the blame rested on someone else's shoulders. And then there it was—anger. He clenched the steering wheel and peeled off as soon as Veronica closed the door behind her.
Tramp greeted her at the door, brushing her black coat against her ankles, seemingly begging for the account of her newest adventure. If she could talk, she would tell stories better than Veronica's New York Times Best Sellers. The attentive feline cocked her head from right to left as Veronica sat on the sofa removing her shoes and explaining what happened with Benson. Tramp purred and stretched in agreement.
"Are my secrets safe with you, girl?" Veronica inquired while stroking her trusted friend and taking her reciprocative cuddles as confirmation loyalty.
She reached for her phone and saw that her lawyer had left a voice message, and her husband had called 17 times and sent one text message. Her husband, Eric Forthechild, was a nep-baby with a zest for adventure, cocaine and women who his parents did not want to be the mother of their grandchildren. He didn't need a career but for his love of productivity he created a lucrative real estate firm adding to his family's wealth. For sure, he should have sought the divorce by now, after all, it had almost been a year since she'd left him in New York. But they were more like best friends than husband and wife, and when Veronica explained that she wanted to live closer to her agent, he excitedly encouraged her to go and even helped her find the apartment. If she had felt like being honest with him and breaking his high, she would have told him that she wanted to move to Dallas because she was over being his wife. But she would have also broken his dreams for starting a family. He loved her, or so he thought, and he wanted her to be happy, so he told her to make the move, and they'd figure something out. They never figured anything out.
"Hey. Call me back. It's an emergency." the text read. He must have seen the headlines. Veronica began listening to the voice message:
"This is Attorney Radcliff. I would like to speak to you about your plea and also about some recent headlines. Please tell me that you are not aware of an incident involving a certain Rhett Brugler that occurred on Friday, the 23 of August. If you are expecting to beat this case, I certainly hope that you are keeping yourself free of any further—."
A playful knock on the door broke Veronica's concentration. Who in their right mind would be knocking on her door at this time in that manner? She stopped the voice message and placed her phone on the island as she walked to the door. She stood on her tiptoes, balancing so as to not lean against the door frame, and looked through the peephole.
It was Bruno, the driver, grinning and looking from left to right as if to wonder if anyone had seen him come up and then he knocked again using the Shave and Haircut tune.
How dare he? Who did he think he was following her up to her apartment? Veronica took a deep breath and then opened the door.
"Did I forget something in your vehicle?"
"Uh, yeah, you forgot me," he said, with a dumb grin on his face. "I cancelled the next stop—for you."
"Didn't you hear me say that I didn't need any help with my bags?"
"Well, you didn't really have any bags, so I took it as a joke. Come on, you know you felt it when you got in the car..."
"Felt what?"
"You know—the vibes. I felt it."
Bruno ran his hand through his impressively wavy hair and took a step closer. Without hesitating, she jabbed his chest with a sharp chop and forced all the air out of his lungs. He kneeled and wheezed loudly as the air escaped through his nose and mouth. Grabbing his head, Veronica used her knee to break his nose. Blood gushed onto his polyester Hawaiian shirt, and using both his hands, he tried to prevent its flow.
"You b*tch!" he yelled, slightly muffled by his own blood.
Calmly, Veronica closed the door and stood watching him through the peephole. Yelling insults and accusations, he punched the door and winced in regret. When he spotted the surveillance camera, he scampered off holding his shirt to his face.
Veronica chuckled and began undressing for a bath. Men had no one to blame for their pain but themselves. He's lucky he only had a broken nose and hand. Benson would be jealous.
In the bathtub, Veronica imagined washing away any masculine residue. She rarely took pleasure in any of her exploits with other men; Eric was the only man whose touch didn't make her cringe. Perhaps that's why she said yes when he asked her to marry her, surely if he was the only man that she felt sexually expressive with, then that must mean she loved him, right? Who knows.
She dried herself, slipped on her robe, and reached for her phone to set an alarm and arrange an Uber to drop her off at the Monarch to retrieve her car from valet the next morning. As she crawled into bed, she heard three less playful knocks at the door.
As much as Veronica wanted to give Bruno a lesson in his mortality, she knew not to do that sort of thing this close to home. But him returning only meant that he wanted revenge. If anything were to be done, it needed to be done away from the door to her unit.
Tightening her robe around her waist, she walked to the door. Before flipping on the light, she looked through the peephole. It was covered. Once she opened the door, surely, he would try to force his way in. She couldn't have that.
She quickly opened the door and moved forward, her hand, to his neck.
"Wow. I see you are still doing Taekwondo." a man in a Prada suit smelling like Clive Christian No. 1 and holding the New York Times chuckled. He held up a bouquet of 2-dozen red roses. "Look, they match the blood on your door."
Removing her hand from his neck and grabbing the roses, Veronica asked, "What the hell are you doing here?"
Grinning, he grabbed her waist and guided her into the apartment locking the door behind them. Bending, he lowered his lips inches from hers and before kissing her, he whispered, "That's no way to speak to your husband, now, is it?"
Discussion: Did Veronica lead Bruno on? Did he have a legitimate reason to seek her company after the share ride?
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