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Casually he added, “You didn’t answer your phone earlier. I tried calling when I left the office early. Where were you?”

My heart stuttered. “I couldn’t hear it while I was driving.”

“Driving where?” he pressed, voice still casual but with an edge underneath. “You usually tell me when you change your plans.”

“Just errands,” I lied. “Nothing important.”

The boys chattered between us, oblivious, but Richard’s attention never fully left me. Every question felt like a probe, every silence heavy with suspicion. I answered each one carefully, deflecting, smiling, pretending the man across from me had not just dismembered a woman in that warehouse. By the end of the meal my nerves were shredded, but I had kept up the façade.

After dinner I helped the boys with their homework, got them bathed and into bed, reading them a story until their eyes grew heavy. I moved through the routine as usual. Once they were asleep I changed into my nightclothes and waited. Richard eventually came to bed, sliding in beside me with that familiar hunger in his eyes.

He pulled me close, his large hands sliding under my nightgown, possessive and demanding as they roamed over my body.

“I missed you today,” he murmured against my neck, his voice low and rough with need.

His fingers dug into my hips, pulling me flush against him so I could feel how hard he already was, his thick cock strained against his boxers.

I wanted to push him away, to scream, to run. Instead I gave in, terrified of what refusal might reveal. His mouth claimed mine in a bruising kiss, tongue thrusting deep, tasting of wine. He rolled me onto my back, his body heavy and powerful as it pinned me down. Those same hands that had been inside another woman’s body only hours earlier now yanked my nightgown up and over my head, exposing me completely. The thought spiraled wildly. Horror twisted with unwanted heat until I could barely breathe.

His eyes raked over my body with predatory hunger.

“You’re so sexy,” he growled.

His mouth latched onto my breast, sucking hard enough to leave marks while his fingers slipped between my legs, stroking my clit roughly before plunging two fingers deep inside me.

He worked them in and out, curling to hit that spot that made my back arch despite the terror, until I was shamefully wet and dripping around his hand. This was the man who hummed while chopping a woman into pieces. The image fractured everything while slick pleasure crashed against revulsion.

Richard shoved his boxers down, freeing himself. He positioned himself between my thighs, spreading them wide with his knees, and thrust into me in one brutal stroke, burying himself inside me. I gasped sharply, back arching as he stretched and filled me completely. He set a punishing rhythm, hips slamming against mine with wet, obscene slaps, each powerful thrust driving me deeper into the mattress and forcing moans from me.

His hand wrapped around my throat, squeezing just enough to make my pulse race under his palm, not cutting off my air, but reminding me exactly who was in control. Sweat slicked our bodies as he fucked me harder, grunting with every deep plunge, and his free hand pinned my wrist above my head.

“Fuck, you feel so good,” he rasped.

I clung to him, nails raking down his back, my mind fracturing between the building ecstasy and the blood-stained images. Every brutal thrust, every wet sound of us fucking felt like a betrayal of the woman in the warehouse. How many others has he taken like this before ending them? I came hard around him, crying out as my walls clenched violently on his cock.

Richard followed soon after, burying himself to the hilt with a deep, guttural groan, his cock pulsing as he spilled deep inside me. He collapsed on top of me, his breath hot against my ear.

“Good girl,” he whispered, kissing my temple almost tenderly before rolling off and pulling me against his chest.

I lay there rigid, heart hammering, until his breathing grew deep. Only then did I slip out of bed and creep downstairs.

My phone rang just as I reached the living room.

Unknown number.

I answered on the second ring and stepped outside barefoot, slipping into the car and closing the door softly behind me.

“Mrs. Kincaid? This is Detective Colin Grant. Do you have a minute to talk?”

“Yes,” I whispered. “Thank you for calling back so quickly.”

“Take your time,” he said. “I’ve read the initial report. Walk me through what you saw today, in your own words.”

I took a shaky breath and repeated everything: the warehouse, the boarded window, the blood, the music, the humming, the sight of Richard dismembering the woman. Grant listened without interrupting, then asked a few precise follow-up questions about Richard’s schedule, any unusual items in the house, and patterns of absences.

“I know how this sounds,” I said, voice cracking. “But I think my husband might be connected to the murders. He might be the Brentwood Butcher.”

Grant was quiet for a moment. “Mrs. Kincaid, this is serious. Listen carefully. Do not confront him. Act normal. Start making quiet preparations. If you take the boys, he will know and he will come after you. Keep him believing everything is fine. We’ll talk again soon about next steps.”