Page 73 of The Butcher's Wife
Her body is completely boneless against the couch.
I hesitate. But I’ve never been a man of half measures, so I tell her, “You’re perfect.”
A little velvetbox rests against my thigh as I drive to my last stop for the night.
You’re so good to me.
I called her perfect. And it’s the way she wasglowingafter the praise that has me adjusting myself now as I wait at a stoplight.
When she moved in, I thought she’d be a little broken birdie I’d have to take care of. She’d stay scared and timid, and I’d protect her, but our relationship would end there.
The confident Annetta who fills up the penthouse with her flowers and bread and demands I chase her and fuck her and train her?
That version of her is dangerous.
I’m already forgetting what this marriage is supposed to be. I told her we’d take it day by day, but I’ve spent my entire evening slipping into daydreams of what she’ll be like in five, ten years. I imagine her and me in bed on a lazy Sunday afternoon, or her standing over me with that look of intense desire as she tells me what to do in her sweet, bell-chime voice.
She wants protection, control, and maybe a little fun. I can give her all those things, but eventually, she’ll want more—she deserves more.
I pull up to the address Turi gave me and peer through the windshield. Even in the dark, I can see this place is a shithole. Sure, I’ve learned that looks can be deceiving, but I can’t imagine anyone living like a king inside this cardboard-colored apartment tower.
In either case, I pat my gun and knife and jump out of the SUV. The two smokers on the front steps of the building take one look at me as I stride past and beat it.
Smart.
I’m breathing through my mouth as I pass through piss-stained hallways that reek of weed and sewage until I get to the door I’m looking for—lucky number 111.
I rap on the door and wait.
Several locks click on the other side of the wood, and the door cracks open just to the length that the thin door chain will allow. A sallow twenty-something-year-old man looksout at me. His eyes widen as he takes in my appearance, and I can tell he’s fighting the urge to slam the door in my face. He must understand that it wouldn’t help him, because he keeps it open.
I grin. I’d lean against the doorway, but I’m not touching anything in this hellhole that I don’t have to.
“You know who I am?”
His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows. “No, sir.”
His shirt, at least, is clean. I can make out the fast-food uniform logo stitched onto his chest through the crack in the door.
“It’s probably best you don’t, but you should let me in anyway.”
Another bob of his throat. “Yes, sir.”
He shuts the door. The chain lock jangles against the back of the door, and then it swings open.
“You just move in?” I ask as I step into his apartment.
Despite the disrepair outside, the inside of his apartment is nearly empty and about as clean as it could be in a place like this. A lone cup of instant ramen sits on his kitchen counter, a wispy tendril of steam curling out. The only pieces of furniture in the entire studio apartment are a metal fold-out chair, a plastic grey table, and a neatly folded pile of blankets next to a stained foam mattress.
“No, sir.”
My first thought is that he’s an addict, but he doesn’t have a bong or needles anywhere. And anyway, he’s as alert as a rabbit as he watches me from the kitchen.
Best to get this over with before I start feeling bad for the kid.
“Does the name Serafina mean anything to you?” I hate that I still have to say her name when that’s not my wife’s name.
“Y-you mean Mrs. Lombardi?”
