Unmissing(68)

He stops squirming, his attention landing on the knife in my white-knuckled hand.

“Don’t do this . . . think of the kids.” He swallows, but all I can look at is the pulsing vein in his neck.

“The kids are all I think about.” I inch closer. “Wish you could say the same.”

“Where are they?”

I find it impossible to believe he cares about their whereabouts. He’s trying to distract me, that’s all.

“They’re safe,” I say. Though the car isn’t running, I made sure they were wrapped in blankets before I sent Lydia down with them. They might be cold, but they’re not freezing. And I’ll be with them soon enough. “Not that you care. I mean, you were going to murder them . . .”

“That’s not true. I swear on my life.”

“I honestly thought you loved me.” I roll my eyes at myself. “God, what an idiot I was. The player got played. Serves me right, I guess.”

“I do love you.” He writhes. “I love you more than anything. You and the kids. You’re my world . . . the only thing that matters to me.”

“Please.” I yawn. “Save your tired greeting-card sentiments. Nothing you say is going to change any of this. It’s too late to rewrite your future. And honestly, the one I wrote for you the first time around was pretty damn amazing. I’m sorry you couldn’t see that.”

This is his fault: the struggling businesses no one will buy, the mess we’re in now, the fatherless childhood our children are about to know.

He opens his mouth to refute, but I’m tired. I can’t subject myself to another miserable second of his voice, and my babies are getting cold.

Without warning, I plunge the butcher knife into the tender bend of his neck, and I climb off the bed before any of the gushing blood spills onto my nightgown.

Luca tries to speak, but his voice is gurgled.

Murder weapon in hand, I filch the extra zip ties off the nightstand—displeased at the thought of Lydia tying me up in this scenario. I close the door behind me, leaving my husband to choke to death on his own blood.

Honestly, he did this to himself.

All he had to do was listen to me, respect me, trust that I had all our best interests at heart. Lydia was a nuisance, yes, but I would’ve made it all go away had he kept me in the goddamned loop and not treated me like the Golden Globe–worthy character I played.

The elfin woman hasn’t moved an inch, still lying in a heap by the stairs. I check her breath again. Unfortunately still alive. Exhaling, I yank the god-awful necklace from around her neck and wrap it twice around my wrist like a makeshift bracelet.

A last-minute souvenir, something I can pull out of a drawer someday when life is excruciatingly hard and I need a reminder of the mountain I scaled to get there.

Gripping the handrail, I make my way downstairs—to the fireplace. I strike a match from the box on the mantel and toss it into the log pile in the firebox, along with the remaining zip ties and the blood-soaked butcher knife. Tiny flames curl around a small piece of firewood, slowly wrapping the length before spreading to the one above.

I light four more matches, throw them all in, and grab the fire stoker. A minute later, I’ve arranged enough of the kindling outside the firebox to help it spread beyond the brick surround before it crawls toward a nearby children’s book, then to a blanket and a throw pillow next to the sofa.

While I’d love to stay and watch the entire place burn to the ground, I must be on my way.

Grabbing my purse from the kitchen table, I exit from the farmhouse for the final time, slide into my cold car, and start the engine. I press the seat and steering wheel warmers and let it idle for a bit, checking on my sleeping babies, who are none the wiser.

Someday, when they’re old enough to understand, I’ll tell them all about their father’s deranged first wife, how she faked her disappearance and came back with a vengeance, jealous of his idyllic new life. I’ll tell them how she sneaked into our beautiful farmhouse when we were asleep, tied their father up, and stabbed him in the jugular. With tears in my eyes, I’ll describe in meticulous, heartfelt detail how the three of us narrowly escaped death after Lydia lit a fire in our living room and tried to barricade us inside until I mustered the strength to fight back and get us to safety.

I give the fire a little more time to spread before shifting into reverse and heading to town. According to my GPS, we’re twenty minutes from the police station. By the time I get there, I’ll have my story together.

I dump my phone in a dumpster outside a gas station on the edge of town; that way I can say I had no means to call 911. She took my phone, I’ll tell them. It perished in the fire . . . along with my poor husband. And when they get there and find her dead of smoke inhalation, they’ll rule it a murder-suicide. No questions asked.

Thirty days from now, I’ll submit my claim against the life insurance policy I took out on my husband years ago—the one I purchased just in case.

A precaution of my own.

Because I am—by all accounts—a reasonable woman.





CHAPTER FORTY-TWO


LYDIA

I wake with a gasping start, my lungs burning. Everything around me is dark, and the smoky scent of fire and ash fills my nostrils. Feeling the ground around me, I slick my hand against the top step in an attempt to get my bearings, but when I push myself up, my head throbs and everything around me turns on its side.