The Wife Deserved It

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Chapter One

A vicious summer storm blew over the county, uprooting trees and sending limbs crashing into flooded streets. The house’s old windows rattled from the force of the screeching wind. Perfect timing. The orchestra of bangs and thuds would drown out the screaming.

I opened the back door and slipped inside as lightning streaked through the gloomy night. The power had flickered on and off all evening, but the steady hum of the refrigerator signaled a return to normal, at least for that.

The kitchen, with its yellowing oak cabinets that begged for a remodel, stuck out in greeting in the darkness. My luck held because no one stood there making coffee or staring out the window over the sink.

Being on a tight schedule, I didn’t mess around. I headed for the family room. The heart of the house. Decorated with an overabundance of pillows and childish hand-painted artwork with words and phrases meant to inspire. The block of wood on the mantel, the one that covered the bottom left of the television and sometimes made the remote malfunction, said Family is everything. More than once I wanted to slam the useless thing into the wall and go back to watching the Eagles.

I knew every inch of the house. Every scar, every bruise, every ache in my lower back spoke to the list of chores Anna insisted I undertake during my few available hours away from work each week. She had a knack for launching into an unnecessary diatribe the second I crossed the front door threshold in the evening. The only responsibility-free, non-nagging time of my day was the twenty-minute commute. The precious sliver of peace between the office and the house.

Anna filled my weekends with endless family events, too. She viewed that two-day break as fertile stomping grounds for mindless nonsense. Tasks she dreamed up to keep me tied to the property. To her. To the kids she insisted we have despite my initial ambivalence.

I’d painted the walls. Plowed the snow in the driveway. Assembled that jungle gym in the backyard. That would be the first thing I got rid of before moving back in.

Well, the second.

Anna liked to make jokes, snide comments about being in charge of the household. She’d sit with those insipid girlfriends—her description, not mine—from the neighborhood and exchange “my husband is terrible” stories. The Sycamore Hills Moms Club. Yes, they’d given themselves a pithy little name. Pathetic. That’s what they were. Shallow. Vapid. Self-interested. They lived off their husbands’ sweat and sleepless nights while wallowing in hours filled with nothing more taxing than coffee dates, school runs, and gossip.

Let’s see if they were laughing about “lazy spouses” tomorrow. They should be thanking their husbands. Feeling blessed they were still breathing. Stupid cows.

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The couch. That’s where Anna would be, sleeping downstairs as she drifted off in a snoring haze while watching some housewives show childishness.

I rounded what should be a sectional sofa. That’s what I’d wanted. Room to spread out without the kids hanging all over me. I loved them but at six and eight they didn’t appreciate the concept of personal space or quiet time. And I couldn’t yell at them because they needed to know I loved them unconditionally—or whatever self-help, social media guru bullshit Anna believed this week.

I slipped around the side table, careful not to knock into the lamp. Focused on the usual pile of blankets and other crap strewn over the cushions.

My eyes fought adjusting to the minimal light creeping in from a streetlight out front. My cell screen might help, but I’d seen enough of those true crime shows to know about phone tracking. Listened to them, actually. Anna tuned in every weekend night. I caught bits and pieces while I tried to concentrate on almost anything else.

Had to admit the information came in handy tonight. My cell sat nowhere near here and couldn’t be used as evidence against me. Because I would be blamed. I could hear it now: Reid did it. The estranged husband always became the main target.

Beating the accusations would be the best part. Looking at Anna’s friends in the future, knowing I destroyed their sense of safety along with their precious Anna.

I loomed over the sofa. Let my gaze wander over the . . . Not a body. Not legs. No Anna. I swept the covers to the side just to make sure.

All that planning and she wasn’t even here. It figured she’d picked tonight to go upstairs early. That made things harder. More involved. I’d need more time to stage the scene and clean up any evidence that I’d been here on this night.

My brain recalculated as various options moved in and out of my head. I’d hoped to keep this dramatic scene to a contained area downstairs. That would make what followed easier. Only one floor to clean up and stage. I wanted simple. The burglar broke in, attacked, then fled in panic, but Anna had screwed that up, too.

I stood at the bottom of the stairs and stared up into the second-floor darkness. Listened for movement. A cough welled up from deep in my chest, but I bit it back. The resulting sound barely registered above a whisper.

Still, I hesitated. Gave the house a few minutes to settle. Concentrated on the usual creaks and groans as the storm battered the walls, trying to separate out stray sounds of life. I didn’t hear any. Good to go.

With each step, I debated the next move. The possibilities whirled until the pieces clicked together in my head. I could still make this work with my original alibi in place. I was smarter than her. Tougher. Stronger. More agile. More fit. No need to recalibrate or postpone.

Anna Cavanagh would die tonight. In a violent, community-terrorizing murder that would leave her poor, grieving family and loving husband who was desperate for a reconciliation stunned and begging for answers.

I relished playing the role of sad spouse. How incredibly satisfying that ruse would be.

Nine years of marriage. Six years of slow deterioration.

One night of killing.

end of excerpt

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