Page 2 of What the Wife Knew

So much for thinking he’d get bored. He’d ratcheted up his nonsense and added music from the whole-house speakers this round. The only solace came from knowing messing with me meant messing up his own sleep. But his behavior begged for a harsh lesson. The kind of metaphorical beating that would make him hesitate before unleashing his next bright idea.

Like most men in his I-deserve-expensive-things circle, he craved power, but he failed to understand how to harness it. Real power grew out of a festering anger that fought any form of healing. Match fury with rigid determination and a bone-deep sense ofI don’t care what you think about me,and you win.

Richmond didn’t have the nerve. Behind the toothy grin and love of shiny objects, he needed to be liked. To be praised and honored. To believe the masses existed to bask in his glory. That misplaced hubris would be his downfall. Because all the male posturing in the world couldn’t defeat a ticked-off woman on a mission.

Richmond had tricks and nighttime maneuvers. An array of covert actions to prove he reigned as top bully in the household. I had leverage. And a bat.

Throwing off the covers, I slid out of bed and into my slippers. The night-light from the attached bathroom showed the way. After a quick check in the mirror to make sure my loose pajamas still covered what needed to remain covered, I grabbed the end of the bat from its resting place next to my side of the bed.

There was no need to rush because revenge should be savored. By the time I reached my bedroom door, my sole goal and deepest desire turned to making Richmond wet himself with fear.

Undoing the bolt lock took a second then into the hallway, ready to go and swinging the weapon I’d bought for added security a week ago. The walk to his bedroom door took a dramatically long time. The moonlight streaming through the window lit my path. I marched past a series of closed doors until I got to his end of the second-floor hallway. The space under the closed door leading to this suite remained dark, as if he were pretending to be asleep.

Nice try.

He started this battle. Tonight, I would end it.

I turned the knob but the door didn’t move. He’d locked it. Unlucky for him, I’d predicted another night of household harassment and loosened the screws to his simple chain lock. Why? Because I played this game better than he did. I created the fucking game.

One well-placed shoulder shove nearly knocked the door off its hinges.

“What the hell?” The light beside his bed clicked on. Richmond sat there, wide-eyed and gawking.

A good start.

“You’ve been a very bad boy, my dear husband.”

He reached for his cellphone and did something to make the music clanging through the house stop. Next came the removal of his earplugs. Then he shot me his bestoutraged manexpression. “What are you doing?”

Such unimpressive huffing and puffing. I aimed the end of the bat in the direction of his head. “I warned you to behave.”

“Get the hell out of my bedroom.”

“That doesn’t sound like an apology.” Time to swing and that stupid plaque hanging on the wall looked like the perfect target. The award naming him as a top doctor in New York State. It used to hang on the wall in the primary bedroom, but he took it with him when he relocated like it was his prized possession and not some nonsense way for a magazine to sell ads.

Thecracksplit through the quiet room as wood slammed into the plaster with enough force to vibrate up my arms and put a dent in the wall. The award landed with a thud. The lamp on the chest of drawers beneath it teetered then fell, crashing and ripping a hole in the shade.

Perfect.

He stood up. “You stupid—”

“No.” A slight pivot and now the bat hovered between us. “You don’t get to create chaos then belittle me with nasty names when I call you out on your bullshit.”

Standing six feet away, he stared at the end of the bat, clearly weighing the chance of grabbing it before I could land another swing.

“I dare you.” Part of me ached for him to push me too far. “Please give me an excuse to beat you to death with this.”

His eyes darted left then right as he performed what looked like a mental countdown. Probably giving himself ayou can do itrah-rah speech like the psychopath he was.

He’d been showered with years of fawning press. Sycophantic fans prattled on about his courage and good looks. The black hair with silver streaks. The deep blue eyes. His admirers missed his rotting heart. The one I dreamed about tearing out of his chest, throwing on the floor, and stomping into a pulverized puddle of slush.

He took a deep breath. “What are you doing in here, Addison?”

An interesting change in tone. He sounded calm and reassuring. Refocused and carefully tuned to suggest I was the unhinged one. When he talked like this my paranoia about the presence of listening devices spiked. He was supposed to be a genius, after all. But I repeatedly checked and used a bug sweeper and never found anything, so I didn’t edit my words when we were alone.

Smart or not he deserved the hellfire I’d been using to douse his once-storybook adult life. And I was only getting started.

“I told you to stop playing with the smart-home features.” I’d been pretty clear on that point. Warned him more than oncethat he was wandering down a dangerous path. One that could blow up what was left of his carefully structured life.

---