The Other Mrs.(100)

“I’ve done some research myself,” Will says. “Psychotherapy is the recommended treatment. There are no medications that treat this thing,” as if it’s cancer that I’ve got.

I wonder if he knows so much, why he never suggested psychotherapy before. Perhaps it’s because I’ve seen therapists in the past. Perhaps it’s because he mistakenly believed I was getting treatment.

Or perhaps it’s because he never wanted me to get better.

“We’ll come up with a plan in the morning,” he says, “after you’ve had a good night’s sleep.”

He withdraws his hands from my head. He steps to the side of the chair, and with a soft spin, he turns the chair so that I’m looking at him.

I don’t like the control he has over me.

Will waits a beat, and then he drops to his knees. He looks me in the eye. Says dotingly, “I know this has been a hell of a day. Tomorrow will be better, for both of us.”

“Are you sure?” I ask, and he tells me, “I am. I promise.”

And then he cups my face in his hands. He runs his lips over mine, softly, delicately, as if I’m easily broken. He tells me I mean the world to him. That he loves me more than words could ever say.

From upstairs, there’s a thump. Tate begins to scream. He’s fallen from bed.

Will draws back, eyes closed. In a moment, he rises up to standing.

He nods toward the glass of wine. “Just holler if you’d like more.”

He leaves, and only then do I catch my breath. I hear his footsteps on the stairs, his voice call out to Tate that he’s on his way.



WILL


For as smart as Sadie is, she’s also utterly clueless. There’s a lot she doesn’t know. Like how, if I log in to her Google account from another device—as I do from the bedroom now—I can see her search history.

She’s been up to no good. Nosing around on the bank’s website. Not that she’ll find anything there.

But she found other things.

It was the blood that gave it away, as I first came into the bedroom a few minutes ago. Four stray drops of it on the floor, from the door to the curtains. I went to the bedroom curtains, looked behind, saw that the outlet cover hung lightly aslant. I opened the safe. The money was gone.

That avaricious hog, I thought. What has she done with it?

Now that she’s found the money, it won’t take long for Sadie to figure out I’ve been robbing Imogen’s trust fund. The girl is a pest but she’s worth keeping around just for that. I’m slowly creating my own little nest egg.

According to her search history, Sadie’s also been looking into Erin and Morgan online. Connecting the dots.

Perhaps she’s not as clueless as I thought.

I put Tate to bed. He’s glum from the fall. I give him Benadryl, tell him it will help his little noggin feel better. I give a dab more than the recommended dose. I can’t have him awake tonight.

I kiss the spot on Tate’s head where it hurts, get him in bed. He asks for a bedtime story, and I oblige. I’m not worried. No matter what Sadie finds, it will be a moot point when she drinks her wine.

It’s only a matter of time.



SADIE


I have to find a way to call Officer Berg and tell him what I’ve found. He won’t believe me. But I have to tell him anyway. He’ll be obligated to look into it.

I haven’t seen my cell phone since the morning. The last time I saw it, it was in the kitchen, the same place our landline is. That’s where I need to go.

But the idea of leaving the office scares me. Because if Will could kill Erin, he could kill me.

I take a series of deep breaths before I go. I try to act nonchalant. I carry my wine with me. I bring a letter opener just in case, with a sharp-enough blade. I slide it in the waistband of my pajama pants, worried it will fall.

On the other side of the office door, I’m vulnerable. The house is oddly quiet and dark. The kids are asleep. No one told me good-night.

A light glows in the kitchen. It’s not bright. A stove light only, which I go to, like a moth to a porch light, trying hard to shake the feeling that Will is behind me, that Will is watching me, that Will is there.

If he killed Erin, how did he do it? Was it in a fit of rage, or was it premeditated? And what about Morgan? How, exactly, did she die?

I feel the letter opener slipping deeper into my pants. I hoist it up. My hands are trembling, unsteady, and so the wine spills as I do, the glass getting cocked too far to one side. I lick the rim of the glass to wipe it clean. I purse my lips, not liking the bitter taste of the Malbec. Regardless, I take another sip, force it down as tears prick my eyes.

A noise from behind startles me and I turn, seeing only the shadowy foyer, the indefinite dining room. I hold still, watching, waiting, for movements, for sound. This old home has so many dark corners, so many places where someone can hide.

“Will?” I say lightly, expecting him to reply, but he doesn’t. No one does. No one’s there, or at least I don’t think someone is there. I hold my breath, listen for footsteps, for breathing. There’s none. A blunt headache lingers, worsening in intensity as the moments go by, and I find myself becoming hot and bothered because of it. Under my armpits and between my legs, the skin is tacky. I take another sip of the wine, try to calm my nerves. The wine doesn’t taste as bad this time. I’m getting used to the bitterness.