I shiver in my thin jacket, dump my keys on the coffee table, and stare blankly at the empty couch where my husband should be.
Whateva im goin to Andy’s.
I’d almost forgotten his earlier text. My husband. My darling husband who hates me. God, why is Joe just another problem I have to fix? I climb the stairs, clutching the cold banister in my right hand. It’s so quiet that the sounds of my feet are deafening.
Thud.
Thud.
I don’t know where Reaper is, and I’m surprised how much that stings. I need my boy tonight.
My room, the Campbells’ old bedroom, is large enough to fit four king-sized beds. The only thing I’ve had time to unpack is our bed, and the vast emptiness of the room just swallows it up. And it’s dark, always dark, despite the paltry window.
I’m too tired to shower, and the hot water system still needs replacing. I creep over to the bed and pull my phone out of my jacket pocket. 3:43.
I sit heavily on my side of the bed. Joe’s side’s always been the left, closer to the door, and though we haven’t shared it in months, it’s hard to undo that habit. I tie my hair in a tight ponytail, climb under the covers, and pull them up to my chin.
And of course, I can’t sleep. It hits me that this is the first time I’ve been alone in the house since we moved in last week. I don’t know when Joe will drag his arse home, but I know he’ll be hungover and unreachable when he does.
I roll over and consider pulling up the Kindle app on my phone. But no, I dismiss the idea straightaway. Lately, reading just reminds me of work. It reminds me of that damn blogger shoving her iPhone under my chin and prompting, “When’s your next bestseller coming out?”
I wished I could’ve shoved her phone down her throat. But I smiled instead, because of course I did. That’s what Sarah Slade would do.
I clench my teeth in the darkness, staring at the floor.
Creeeeeeeeak.
I bolt upright.
Creeeeeeeeak.
You’d swear someone was walking up the stairs. I hold my breath and listen.
It’s just the house settling, for shit’s sake. It seems louder tonight because Joe’s not here, the bastard. I exhale slowly, ignore my rattling pulse and the fact that it’s just me, two barren acres, and a murder scene.
You wanted this, I remind myself.
I’m about to roll over when I realize I’m staring right at the bloodstain. It hits me that Susan Campbell was lyingright herewhen her husband crept silently over. It happened in the early hours of the morning. Did he make any noise when he stalked over, claw hammer in hand? Did she hear a creak of footsteps as she lay sleeping?
I don’t know much about their marriage. Only how it ended. And now I can’t get it out of my head. I squint at the bloodstain like I’m looking for clues. I imagine Susan and Bill clasping hands, all shiny eyed and full of that sweet belief reserved for newlyweds. I imagine Susan’s head on Bill’s shoulder as they slow dance in thatBrady Bunchkitchen.
I stare at the bloodstain, grimacing. How did it go from vowing to love, honor, and cherish tothat? Tofuckingthat?
I roll over, turning my back on the bloodstain. An old image of Joe flashes through my mind. Him on our wedding day. He’d bought a ten-dollar shirt from Kmart and tucked the severed head of a yellow tulip into the pocket. It looked ridiculous, but it made me laugh. I was happy to marry him. My boy. Mine.
Tears sting my eyes, and I brush them away. Behind me, the bloodstain laughs.That’s the thing about marriages,it taunts me.We all know the endings. Endings are loud. But we don’t know about the middle.
I open my eyes, and for the first time I wonder about the Campbells. Not the ending. I want to knowtheirmiddle. I want to know when their marriage crossed that devastating line. When did Susan first have a clue that she was no longer safe with the man she married? Did she see it unraveling slowly, thread by fucking thread? Or did she know only when she held up her bloodied hands to defend herself?
The middle of a marriage is quiet. The middle is dangerous.
Joe and I are in the middle.
Creak.
Out of the corner of my eye, something moves. I stop breathing. At the threshold of my bedroom, something pads silently forward. Burning orange eyes glare at me in the darkness. My lips go numb with terror as the thing rushes forward, leaps onto my bed, and pins itself against my chest.
“Reaper!”
