Page 38 of Brutal Husband

Rieta

There’s a strange pressure on the back of my neck.

Placing the orange back onto the pile, I slowly turn and scan the grocery store. It’s six in the evening and the place is full of shoppers who are focused on selecting fresh tomatoes or ordering sliced meats from the deli attendants. No one is looking at me.

And yet.

I’m sure I’m being watched.

I’ve been feeling like this for several days now. The sensation began out of nowhere, and I can’t shake it. I know I’m not paranoid or confused because I haven’t touched a drop of alcohol since the night Nero disappeared without a trace six months ago.

Chunks of my memory are missing. I hate it. I never want to black out again.

After filing a missing person’s report, I never heard from the police again. I did hear from Nero’s accountants and lawyersafter a few weeks, though not in the way that I was expecting. They didn’t hand over official papers and order me out of the house, freeze my bank accounts, or act in any way at all that was hostile. They were concerned about Nero and expressed sympathy for me. I forgot that no one knew just how terrible our marriage was. To them, I’m not Nero’s hated, drunken mistake. I’m his beloved wife who must be treated with respect. After I gave them the case number for the police report I’d filed, they thanked me and left me alone. Life has been strangely peaceful.

Until now.

A thread of apprehension runs down my spine as I hunt the shadows for a hidden figure, and see no one and nothing out of the ordinary.

I quickly finish my shopping and drive home, my gaze flicking more times than is necessary into my rearview mirror. Cars follow me, their lights visible through the blur of raindrops on the glass. Just usual rush hour traffic or something more sinister?

At home, I make a goat cheese and pumpkin salad for myself and wash it down with sparkling water. After that, it’s time for the weekly Harriet’s Helpers meetup. We’re a group of neighborhood people who came together to help keep the missing little girl present in everyone’s minds and hearts.

When I arrive at the usual street corner, Annie is passing out newly printed missing posters to the other volunteers. We have to replace them constantly as they’re destroyed by the weather or covered by other flyers.

I give Annie a hug and accept a sheaf of flyers and a roll of sticky tape. I know better than to ask if there’s been any news. If there was, she’d be excitably gabbling it to everyone, but Annie is silent, thin, and pale.

I head off to my designated streets and start taping posters to poles. The back of my neck prickles, and a terrified shudderpasses through me. I should have asked someone else to walk with me. The sensation of being followed is stronger than ever.

Ninety minutes later I’m at home again, and I watch two episodes of a drama, and then head upstairs to bed.

My bed is much bigger than the one I was used to while living at home, but it’s just as empty. I’ve taken to sleeping in an oversized T-shirt and nothing else. Cute slips are for married women whose husbands are interested in having sex with them.

I get between the cold sheets, huddle into a little ball while I wait for the bed to warm up, and then drift slowly off to sleep.

That night, I dream about my husband. Or rather, I have a nightmare about my stalker. I don’t know why I should dream my stalker is my husband when he rarely bothered to acknowledge my existence after we were married, but it’s him who’s watching me hungrily from the shadows in the corner of my bedroom.

Then he’s not just watching. He’s up on the bed with me, tugging the blankets down to expose my body, devouring me with his eyes. It feels so good to be looked at, even if it’s just in my dreams. I’ve been feeling smaller and smaller; I’m becoming invisible, but as Nero’s large hands seize hold of and hungrily stroke and squeeze my flesh, I’m seen. I exist.

I moan and roll onto my back, inviting him to claim more of me. The dream is so vivid, and I never want it to end. He’s a dark, malevolent shadow over me, drawing my T-shirt up to expose my breasts. I cry out when his mouth claims one of my nipples, and he rolls it with his tongue. Who cares if I scream? I’m all alone in this huge, empty, loveless house.

In my dreams, he kisses down my body as he pushes my thighs apart with his knees. My shadowy dream man groans in pleasure.

He runs his tongue hungrily up my slit, and he whispers, “Cara mia. Fuck, I’ve missed you.”

13

Nero

It’s easy to get into the house. Since I’ve been gone, Rieta hasn’t changed any of the security codes. I observed from the garden as she ate dinner, watched television, and took herself off to bed. A cozy evening for one, like I never fucking existed. I let myself into my house with the spare key from the office, breathing hard through my nose in the effort to restrain the fury in my heart.

Move on without me, will she?

Keep dark secrets from me, will she?

Go on living without me?

How fuckingdareshe.

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