The Swap(72)

“Fuck the baby!” Smack. “I hate the baby!” Smack. “I hate my life!”

Her blows were harder than usual, her drunken rage improving her strength.

“Stop,” I said.

“You love this, you sick fuck.”

“I don’t,” I said, holding an arm up to fend off her blows. “Not anymore.”

“You don’t get to end this game,” she growled, reaching into a box filled with tools I had kept in the kitchen pantry for unexpected repairs. She withdrew a clawhammer. “I end it.”

If I had known what she was going to do, I’d have defended myself. I was twice her size, after all. But the hammer took me by surprise. Freya could be cruel and violent; she’d utilized a weapon before. But it had always been something fairly benign, like a plate or a wine bottle. Once, she had stabbed me in the chest with a fork. A hammer was different. A hammer was potentially lethal. And I didn’t think she was capable of murdering me. Not until I saw her eyes, dark and empty. Not until I saw her swing the hammer at my head with all the force in her body.

At first, I felt nothing, just a loud, shrill ringing in my ears. The pain came a few seconds later, sharp and pulsing. I’d suffered numerous head injuries, but this was different. This was critical. My vision blurred, and then everything started to go black. It was blood, pouring into my eyes from the wound above my temple. And it was darkness closing in on me, taking me under, snuffing out my life. The last thing I saw was Freya’s beautiful face, contorted by rage, hate, and alcohol.

It was the last time I would ever see it.





67


low


My truck rattled along the winding road that traversed the northern tip of the island. It was a quieter route, with virtually no traffic. I was too drunk to be driving, and despite my suicidal intentions, I didn’t want to take anyone out with me. And I no longer wanted to end it all in a car crash. I had a new plan and it was perfect.

With Thompson’s dad’s gun, I would shoot myself in front of Freya. Unless she begged me not to. Unless she promised to love me like I needed to be loved. But she wouldn’t. She hated me. No, she didn’t hate me. She was indifferent to me. That was worse.

Maggie would be asleep, so I didn’t have to worry about traumatizing her. If Max was home, he’d be collateral damage. But he had already effectively killed a man. Watching me die would be no worse than that. Perhaps a little messier. I planned to splatter myself all over Freya’s bright white sofa. It would serve her right.

I made it to their waterfront home in one piece and parked in the driveway. Ignoring the front door, I stumbled around to the back deck. The sliding glass door would be unlocked, allowing me access. The gun was in my left hand, the hammer cocked, ready to fire. I would draw this out just long enough to see Freya quake and cry, not long enough to change my mind.

But when I yanked open the glass door, I was met with a horrific sight. Max was lying on the floor, his head in a small pool of blood. Freya stood over him, clutching a bloody hammer, trembling with rage, fear, or shock.

“Oh my god,” I gasped. “What happened?”

Freya looked up, and her blue eyes looked cold and blank. “Low . . .” was all she said.

“I’ll call an ambulance.” I tucked the pistol into my waistband and pulled my phone from my pocket.

“It’s too late,” she said, in the same strange monotone. “He’s gone.”

“Y-you killed him,” I stuttered, looking at the hammer. There was blood on the head, some skin and bits of dark hair.

Freya looked at it like she was seeing it for the first time. And then her eyes met mine. They were still blank and lifeless, but I saw her knuckles turn white as she gripped the hammer tighter, I saw her elbow draw back. Freya had to get rid of me. I knew what she had done.

Despite my suicidal mind-set, I didn’t want to be beaten to death with a clawhammer by the object of my thwarted desire. Grabbing the handgun out of my jeans, I pointed it at her.

“Don’t come any closer.”

The hammer dropped to her side, and her face softened. “I would never hurt you, Low. You know that. . . . I love you.”

“Y-you don’t.”

“Of course I do.” Her voice was gentle, almost musical. “We have something special, you and me. We always have. And now, it can just be the two of us. Like you’ve always wanted.”

“Not like this.”

“Max would have killed me. I had to defend myself.” She set the bloody hammer on the counter. “You knew he was violent and troubled.”

The gun wavered in my hand. I lowered it an inch.

“I told him I couldn’t leave you. I told him to go without me. But he got so angry.”

My head was spinning, the grain alcohol swirling my thoughts. I had wanted to be with Freya, but I couldn’t ignore Max’s dead body on the floor. But if it had been self-defense . . .

“I didn’t want it to be like this, hon, but maybe it’s for the best. Now, we can go to LA. We can build an amazing life together, as partners, and best friends. Maybe more . . .” She still wore the white top she’d donned for our morning photo shoot, but there was a light spray of blood across the chest. And yet, she still looked beautiful despite her husband’s body at her feet. “That is . . . if you still want me.”