Page 43 of My Wife

I snap. Dropping to the grass, I grab the gun where the killer must’ve left it. Rising back up, I lift it, aiming dead at Clay. “Stop fucking lying to me!”

He steps closer, making himself a better target.

“You wouldn't dare.”

My arms waver. The gun feels so heavy in my hands. Sowrong. He’s right, too. If I wanted to kill him, I could’ve. But when I see that smug face of his…

I’m shit with a gun. Why wouldn't I be? I’m a stay-at-home girlfriend who used to be a stay-at-home wife. I don’t know how to use a gun.

Does Clay know that I’ve gone to the range to kill some time? If he stalked me like he claimed, he’d know that?

He waits.

I pull the trigger, careful to aim just over his head so I can have plausible deniability when it doesn’t hit him, and?—

Shit.

Nothing happens.

I pull the trigger again, not even caring where I am now. It clicks, but no bullet leaves the round.

It’sempty.

“It had six chambers! That’s what you said,” I say accusingly to the whimpering lump at my feet. Then I feel awful, like the worst person in the whole goddamn world, and fold in on myself.

Meanwhile, Clay twists his knife, making the moonlight dance off the pristine metal.

Pristine? If he gutted Chase, wouldn’t it be covered in blood? Did he have time to clean that up, too?

“See?” he says. “That’s why I went with a knife. Sure, you can get the job done for further away with the gun, but you run out of bullets or forget to reload when you’re showing off to the girl of the week youre fucking, what then? The knife, on the other hand… it requires skill. Nerve. You gotta get close. You gotta not mind getting your hands dirty. Right, baby?”

“Shut up,” I hiss. “You’re sick. I can’t… leave me alone, Clay. Leave me alone!”

“I can’t. Don’t you see that I can’t? I thought I could. Since I knew I’d find my way back to you one day, I thought… a couple of years to make our marriage stronger? To make it so Cyn couldneverleave me? I thought I could do it.” He gestures at his chest with his knife. “See this? This is what happens when I leave you alone.”

Another terrible noise escapes Chase. His body jolted when I said Clay’s name, almost as if—even in his agony, he’s shocked to learn that my supposedly dead husband is here—and that noise is the death throes that wracked him as his body shook.

But then it dies, though Chase doesn’t, no yet, and I swear I hear him whisper a name.

It’s the last thing I want to do, but I throw Clay a quelling look, warning him not today another fucking word, then crouch down by the things that used to be Chase Whitmore.

His eyes are wide and staring, but he can still make out a name. “Tommy…”

“Sh,” I say, trying to soothe him. “I’ll find Tommy. It’s going to be okay."

Clay snorts, the sick bastard enjoying this way too much. “Oh? So you’re a liar, too, Cyn. Okay? Let’s make this clear. He’s not okay. He’s not going to be okay. It can take hours for him to die like this. Bullets to the shoulders. Guts on the grass. He’s dead, and he knows it.”

“Tommy…”

“He can still talk?—”

“Of course. Because he’s trying to tell you who did this to him.” Ignoring my warning, Clay stomps closer, then kicks Chase in the knee. He whispered Tommy’s name, but he howls in agony as the kick. Clay laughs. “Looks like Tommy finally got his revenge.”

I goggle up at him. “What?”

Clay shrugs. “Fair enough. I did get the pleasure of breaking this prick’s legs in high school. I wouldn’t let Tommy help. He was too squeamish at the time, and I needed the outlet for my rage even then. Touching my girl, Chase? You had to know I couldn’t let that stand.” He scoffs. “You’re just lucky I wasn’t murdering then. That’s a recent development.” He glances at me. “For Tommy, too, it seems.”

“But Chase isn’t dead,” I blurt out again.

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