Page 1 of Her Dying Secret

ONE

When he comes back, he is covered in blood. I try not to act scared because he always says there’s nothing to be afraid of as long as we’re together. But he lies. He still treats me like a baby, like I don’t know what he did. Like I don’t know what anything means. His hands shake as he washes away the blood. So much blood. I don’t ask whose blood because I am afraid of the answer. My heart feels heavy and sad.

“It’s okay,” he tells me.

“No, it’s not. What did you do?”

He doesn’t answer. There’s blood on his shirt, too. His pants.

“You ruin everything!” I yell at him.

He keeps rinsing and rinsing. The water turns light red like the crayon I use to draw my flower.

“I hate you!”

With a sigh, he stops washing. “I know you don’t understand but I did what had to be done. To protect us. If they find you, they’ll take you. They’ll kill me.”

I almost shout that I wish they would kill him. He always says he’ll protect me. He’ll do anything to protect me.

But who will protect me from him?

TWO

Josie Quinn’s kitchen looked like the scene of a massacre. Thick red liquid oozed into the grout between the kitchen tiles. Splatters had formed an intricate pattern across her kitchen cabinets. Scarlet fluid dripped from the knobs of the drawers and slashed across the white door of the refrigerator. Something wet landed in Josie’s hair. She reached up, using an index finger to probe her black locks. It came away red.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” she muttered to herself.

How had it gotten onto the ceiling?

Scratching sounded at the back door.

“Just a minute,” she called.

Her Boston terrier, Trout, whined when she didn’t open the door for him precisely two seconds after his first scratch. She ignored his plea. The last thing she needed was the dog tracking the red mess all over the house. Another droplet splashed onto her forehead. This time, a stream of expletives left her mouth, rising in volume as she moved out of dripping range. Outside, Trout started barking. From elsewhere in the house, she could hear her husband, Noah Fraley, moving around. He’d taken charge of cleaning the living room.

There would be no time to clean up the mess before he came into the kitchen. The thought had barely crossed her mind when she heard his footsteps approaching, likely drawn by Trout’s increasingly agitated barks.

Noah appeared in the doorway. “What’s going— Holy shi?—”

Josie turned to face him, grimacing. “I’m sorry.”

Noah took in the room, his eyes widening as he noticed the spatter on the ceiling. “Is that?—”

“Yes.” Josie sighed. “It’s spaghetti sauce. No, it’s not hot. I never even made it to the stove. I opened the jar and dumped it into the pot. I was on my way to the stove and the pot just…”

“You dropped it.”

“It slipped out of my hand!”

Noah looked toward the back door where Trout now stood, his paws pressed against the screen, watching them with the kind of intensity that he normally only reserved for treats. “Just a minute, buddy,” Noah said.

With a sigh, Trout spun three times and lay down on the doormat.

“How come he always listens to you but not me?” Josie complained.

Noah grinned. “Don’t change the subject. Heating up the sauce is like the easiest part of making spaghetti.”

Josie put a hand on her hip. “Oh really? Did you or did you not overcook pasta just last week?”

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