He studies a vintage oil portrait on the wall behind me, lips pressing into a hard line like he’s buying time.
“We promised we’d never talk about that,” he finally says. And it’s true. We’ve made a dozen ironclad agreements to one another since the beginning, but that was the biggest, most sacred one. Almost more sacred than our actual wedding vows.
“What choice have you left us?” I want to scream these words in his face until I’m bloodred. I want to push him against the wall, watch him stumble backward, and relish in the shocked look on his face as he’s caught off guard. His sweet little wife, the mother of his children, the one woman he never should’ve underestimated.
His cheeks flush pink, though he’s not embarrassed. Luca Coletto doesn’t get embarrassed. He’s frustrated, powerless, caught in a years-old lie by the only person who has ever stood by his side and loved him unconditionally.
“I’m going to give you one shot at this.” I keep my voice low and my stare laser focused. “And if you lie to me, Luca . . . so help me . . .” Fist clenching midair, I ask the million-dollar question: “Why is she still alive?”
Elsie giggles from the next room, and I peek my head around the doorway to make sure Everett is safe.
One of us has to care.
“I’m wondering the same thing,” he says, eyes tracking me. “I thought she was dead when I left.”
“You didn’t . . . I don’t know . . . check her pulse?”
“I didn’t want to touch her.” He maintains an impressively stoic expression. “I shot her in the back, I watched her collapse, watched her bleed out. And I waited. I didn’t want to move her or risk getting touch DNA or anything on or around her.”
I roll my eyes. “Apparently you didn’t wait long enough.”
I’ve pegged him as many things over the years. Imbecile was the least of them. Until now.
Jaw clenched, I shake my head. “You’ve royally screwed us. You know that, right? And what were you thinking, bringing us out here? She’s going to think we skipped town, and she’s going to go straight to the police and turn you in.”
“Trust me, she won’t.”
“And how do you know that?”
“Because I have something she wants.” He tucks his chin. “She asked for a new identity, and I told her I’d handle it. She’s not going to turn me in without getting what she wants.”
Idiot.
“And what would she do with a stolen identity, Luca? Honestly.” I throw my hands in the air and let them fall against my sides with a defeated, exaggerated clap.
He begins to say something, then stops.
“So much for being a team.” I deliver my words with sharp precision, using a tone I’ve seldom used in this marriage.
“I’ve got a plan; you just have to trust me.”
I run my fingers through my hair. “And does this plan have anything to do with my emptied bank account? And all those credit card withdrawals?”
“Yes, actually.” He studies me with such intensity he doesn’t blink. Perhaps he’s trying to gauge my madness. Or maybe he’s wrapping his head around a version of his wife he hasn’t seen in years.
Years ago, I retired my ball-busting side in favor of a peaceful marriage, one built for the long haul. In retrospect, that appears to have been a mistake. Never give a horse too much rein lest he think he’s the one leading the excursion.
“And you didn’t think to maybe keep me in the loop before cleaning me out?” I could punch him—and I’m not a violent person. I’ve never hurt another human being in my life, but I’m willing to make an exception in his case. “I couldn’t even buy groceries.”
“She was extorting us,” he says, “with that bullshit assistant manager position. A thousand bucks a day or she was going to turn me in. I had no choice.”
“You were paying her a thousand dollars a day?” I clamp a hand over my nose and force a breath. No wonder he kept that from me—it probably would’ve sent me into an even earlier labor.
“I was giving her what she wanted so she’d leave us alone—and to buy us some time.”
“Time to do what? Come up with another one of your brilliant ideas?”
I’ve never spoken to my husband with this tone of voice before—then again, I’ve never needed to. He’s always been docile, agreeable . . . compliant. He knew how to give me what I wanted. And in return, I gave him what he wanted—a pretty little unopinionated housewife with a healthy sex drive and a promise to be loyal, faithful, and true come what may.
We were playing roles, he and I.
A well-oiled marital machine.
I’d always thought anyone else would be so lucky to have what we had—mutual respect, an understanding, a desperate want for the same things in life . . . financial security, love, a family.
I lean against the peeling floral wallpaper behind me, biting a defiant cuticle and taking a break from having to stare at a face that infuriates me more with every passing second.
A face I created, I might add.
He didn’t look like this when we first met. He was my next-door neighbor—a greasy, unkempt diner busboy. A wallflower of a man with no friends, lacking a thread of charisma or social skills. But I saw something in him no one else did—untapped potential.
All the man needed was a haircut, a gym membership, a new wardrobe, and a vote of confidence. It was like watering a dying plant and shoving it in the sunlight. With a little time and a careful hand, I could bring this man to life. Make him a better version of himself . . . the version he was always meant to be.
Luca was perfect for what I needed. The only problem was, he was broke. Ramen noodle, rusted muffler broke.
I was picking him up from work one night when I spotted him awkwardly chatting it up with a mousy little thing outside the back door who clearly wanted nothing to do with him.
That’s when Lydia Glass landed on my radar.
With nothing better to do, I dug into her past, nosed into her present, and gifted her with a future. The entire plan was my idea. The wooing. The whirlwind relationship. The quickie marriage in Vegas. Relocating to Bent Creek. The insurance policy. All of it.
The girl had no one. No friends, no family, no roommate. No life beyond waiting tables and bingeing Netflix shows in her shitty studio apartment above some sex offender’s garage. Everything about her screamed that she hated her life anyway. I could see it in those shit-brown eyes, the way she was waiting for someone to put her out of her misery.
If Luca was my moldable, pliable clay, Lydia was my low-hanging fruit. And together, they formed an illuminated path to the handcrafted, enviable life I deserved.
After their marriage and subsequent move to Bent Creek, I waited patiently for three months. While the two of them settled into “married life,” I settled for secret rendezvous with Luca, ensuring he knew I’d be waiting for him in the wings when all this was over. And when the opportunity to take Lydia finally presented itself, I had to lie low for another year as he played the part of the grieving husband searching for his missing wife. There couldn’t be another woman in the picture—at all. Armchair investigators and police alike would’ve been all over that.