Page 63 of Sins of a Husband

“Sorry, Paige,” he says before walking away.

I refuse to give up. Despite Katherine Tate's successful cover-up of murder, I will keep a watchful eye out for any murders resembling The Widowmaker. A callous killer like her cannot resist the urge to strike again. And when she does, I'll be there, patiently waiting for justice to be served no matter where in the country it may occur. She will screw up one day, and I vow never to let her get away with another crime.

Chapter Forty-Seven

DAHLIA

The plane liftsoff the ground, and I press my face against the window in first class as I watch the city shrink to a blur of lights and buildings. A rush of excitement and some nervousness course through my body as I leave the familiar behind and head to my new life.

“May I get you something to drink?” the flight attendant asks.

“I’ll have a glass of red wine.” I smile.

She’s back in a flash and hands me my wine. I sip it, thinking about Travis—another cheater.

One day, I was walking down the street and saw him and the twenty-year-old intern exit a cab and walk into the Waldorf Astoria. I follow them inside and step into the elevator with them. He doesn’t recognize me with my short blonde hair and oversized sunglasses. The doors open. They head down the hall to 2416. He swipes the keycard, and they enter the room. I remember Samantha telling Katherine that her husband started playing cards with the guys every Thursday night after work. She complained howshe hated it because he never returned home until after midnight.

The following week, I sneak my way into room 2416 when the maid is in there cleaning and plant a bug. Then, I reserved the room next to it and waited for them. I heard everything: the loud sex and their conversations.

“Are you ever going to leave your wife?” the intern asks.

“Yeah. In time, baby. I just have to get all my financials in order.”

“I hate that we can never go anywhere or do anything in public,” she whines. “I love you and only want to be with you.”

She was in love with his money.

“I love you too, baby. Everything will work out. I promise. You must be patient. Maybe we can go on a trip together—somewhere tropical. Would you like that?”

“Yes. I would love it, Travis.”

“Then I’ll give you the money, and you can book the trip with your credit card. I can’t leave a paper trail for the wife to find. I’ll tell her I’m going on a business trip.”

It's a shame he never made the trip.

Two days later, I discovered that Samantha was going to Connecticut for a couple of days to visit her sister, who was ill in the hospital. Getting into their penthouse was easy. I still had the spare key that Samantha gave Katherine when she stayed there. I walked into the lobby in complete disguise, oversized sunglasses covering my eyes, and stepped right into the elevator, no questions asked.

I waited for Travis to return from work, and when he did, I plunged the knife into his flesh twenty-two times, telling him he was being punished for his sins.

I made a promise to myself that when I arrived in KeyWest, the killings would have to stop. I was starting a new life and couldn’t risk any more police involvement in my life. Although I am very careful, nobody is perfect.

The plane lands, and a smile dances on my lips as I step off and breathe in the salty air. I take a cab from the airport to the Key West car dealership and pick up my new BMW 8 series convertible in Mineral White Metallic. I punch the address of my new home into the GPS and pull out of the lot. The crystal blue water shimmers in the bright sunlight as palm trees line the streets, and colorful houses remind me I’m in paradise.

I arrive at my new home.

Lifting the latch on the front of the picket fence, I step onto the sidewalk leading up to the house. I insert the key and open the door. I’m in awe of this place. The online photos didn’t do it justice. The house is empty and echoes as I walk through it. I ordered all the new furniture online, and it’s being delivered early this evening.

A knock on the door startles me. Who the hell would be at my door? Walking over to it, I see a woman in her early forties with long, blonde, curly hair standing on my porch, holding a wicker basket.

“Hi.” A bright smile crosses her lips, showing her perfectly bright white teeth. “I’m Kris from next door.” She points. “This is for you. It’s a welcome to the neighborhood gift.” She hands me the basket.

“How sweet. Thank you. Come in. I’m Dahlia.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Dahlia. Where are you from?”

I wasn’t about to tell her I was from New York, so I lied.

“Seattle.”

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