Page 47 of My Wife

None of this makes sense, and I don’t think it will until I have the answer to one question.

“Why did you go, Clay?” My voice is barely a whisper. In the quiet of the woods, he hears me anyway. “Why did you leave me?”

Clay closes the gap between us. Still holding his knife, he cradles my jaw in his hands. “I wouldn’t have if I had any choice.”

I’m risking getting sliced, but I barely even realize that as I use all of my strength to shove him away from me.

“You were gone! Dead! I buried an empty fucking casket, Clay! For more than two years, I waited for a sign that you survived because, damn it, Iknewyou weren’t dead. In New Jersey, then in Gullhaven. Iwaited.”

“So did I. But I’m back, baby.”

I shake my head. “And I’ve changed.”

Clay holds out his hands, then slams his fists against his chest. “So have I, baby.”

Don’t I know it?

“The Clay I knew wasn’t a murderer.”

His face shadows over. “That Clay died the day I spilled my blood in that Audi and forced myself to walk away from my wife. And now… to get you back. Tokeepyou… there isn’t anyone I won’t kill.”

And, okay.

That does it.

I’ve just hit my breaking point.

Wow. All that therapy must’ve been worth it in the long run because my sanity lasted way longer than I thought before it justshattered.

For me… he wants me to believe he did this for me. When all he had to do was be my husband. Stay home with me. Fuck me. Buy me things, tell me I was pretty, tell me he loved me. He never would’ve lost me then, and now he’s desperate to get me back?

I laugh, sounding as hysterical as Summer did. Then I remember she can’t laugh because she doesn’t have a tongue… that she can’t laugh becauseClay killed her…and my own laugh becomes crazed. “I can’t fucking believe it. It’s true. My ‘dead’ husband is now a spree killer.”

He likes the sound of my laugh, crazed or not. His answering smile is a wicked one, and I hate myself that it’s enough to have me ready to fucking crawl to him all over again. “I prefer ‘serial’.”

“Isn’t a spree killer one who just kills at random with no time in between?” That’s what happens when you wind down at bedtime, watching true crime TV. Shit like that sticks in your head, and it’s so much easier to argue the definitions of the different types of killers than facing the fact that I’mmarriedto one. “Serial killers plan.”

He smirks. “That’s my point.”

My laughter dies. Okay. It’s not funny anymore. I don’t think it ever was. “Clay?—”

“You don’t get it, baby. I’ve got the taste of blood now. If leaving bodies behind is a way to get you to understand how much I fucking love you, no one is safe.” “I can’t exist without you.”

My fingers clench into tight fists. “Oh? You made it just fine for five years.”

There goes that wild look in his eyes again. “I was there. I wasalwaysthere. You can’t tell me you didn’t sense my eyes on you.”

For the second time, I open my mouth, think better of the answer, then close it.

Because, damn it, he’s right. Idid.

“Take off your pants,” he orders.

“And if I don’t?”

“You’re my wife,” is his answer. “You gonna deny me? My wife? All I wanted was you… and I’m going to have you. So, please, for once… do what I said. Take off your jeans.”

He won’t hurt me if I don’t. Despite how much control he’s lost, I’m absolutely positive that, if I refused him, he’d rage and he’d threaten but he would never hold me down and force me to take him. Our relationship was built on sex and consent. I let him do whatever he wanted to me, whenever he wanted, but we both knew that’s because he had my permission.

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