Chapter 43
“I have love in me the likes of which you can scarcely imagine and rage the likes of which you would not believe. If I cannot satisfy the one, I will indulge the other.”
—Mary Shelley
Despite my best efforts, I’m unable to sleep, even though I know I’ll desperately need the rest for the day ahead. I’ve spent the entire night tossing and turning, thinking through what I’ll do once I leave here. Where I’ll go. Who I’ll be.
The floor is frigid beneath my feet as I stand and, as quietly as possible, bundle up in thick layers.
My suitcase is already packed and waiting by the bedroom door.
I cast one last glance around the room to make sure I’m not forgetting anything essential, then grab my suitcase and creep down the stairs, saying a silent prayer that Ambrose stays fast asleep.
When I make it downstairs and to the front door, I turn and take in the sight of the dark, cozy cabin for one last time. A place that once felt like a prison now feels like a home, a refuge.
But I can’t stay, I remind myself. And with that, I shrug my purse over my shoulder, lift my suitcase, and head outside into the brisk November night.
The black sky seems like it might swallow me whole as I walk across the yard to where the Camaro is parked. I sort of wish it would.
I flick the headlights on once I’ve pulled out onto the road, and I take the winding curves slowly. The devastation of leaving Ambrose is one thing, but the dread of where I’m headed is another. But I need to go back one last time.
Once I make it onto the highway, I head southeast. Anytime my thoughts turn to Ambrose and my heart begins to ache, I remind myself why I’m doing this.
I need my freedom, and he tricked me into giving it away.
Regardless of what he may have lied about, he never should have fooled me into making a deal with him.
Especially one that forced me to witness death at the very least, and kill at the very worst.
I can’t say I’m shocked that I chose the most fucked up path I could.
All that visceral pain morphs back into rage and betrayal, and that’s what fuels me for the rest of the drive.
The sun is just beginning to crest over the horizon when I take the exit onto the interstate. The vibrant sunrises of summer are long gone, replaced by pewter gray skies and watery light. It’s an apt reflection of the familiar hollowness creeping back into my body with every passing hour.
Less than sixty minutes until I’m home—well, until I’m at the house I used to call home, before I knew what a home really felt like.
Joel will be leaving for work right around now and won’t be back until five at the earliest. That gives me plenty of time to take whatever I need and leave.
Leave and go where? I’m not sure. I’ll probably stay close to the area for a day or two, just to make sure that the angels were telling the truth about my ability to escape without physical consequences, but after that, I’ll be free.
After all, freedom is all I’ve wanted for as long as I can remember. So why does the idea seem so daunting, so overwhelming, so… lonely?
It doesn’t have to be that way, the voice in my head whispers. Give him another chance.
I can’t, though. I gave Joel another chance after the first time he lied to me, and look where that got me. It was a slippery slope that led to him taking total control over me. I can’t go through something like that again. I won’t.
Before I know it, I’m pulling off the highway and navigating the familiar streets of the city. The familiarity doesn’t send a pang of sadness through me like I thought it would. I’ve lived eight years of my life in this part of town, but the only memories it holds are ones I’d rather forget.
My chest tightens as I pull onto my street and park in a space a block down from the house. I sit there in the silence, both anxious about going inside and ready to get it over with.
Taking a deep breath, I tell myself that it won’t last long, that I’ll be in and out as quickly as possible, and I exit the car to make my way down the street and to the front door before unlocking it with the key I kept just in case.
It’s surreal being back here again. It’s only been a few months, but some part of me thought it would look different, feel different.
It doesn’t, aside from the slight mess caused by a man who’s used to a woman cleaning up after him. A pile of dishes in the kitchen sink, shoes tossed haphazardly next to the doorway, a jacket thrown over the back of the couch. At least he’s managed to keep the place looking decent, though.
I make my way to the master bedroom and find an empty duffel bag beneath the bed, which I toss on top of the rumpled blankets atop the bed.
From there, I gather up clothing, shoes, and various toiletries that I hadn’t bothered to bring with me the first time I left.
I also empty my jewelry box of anything valuable in hopes of pawning it for more money.
Speaking of money… I rustle through Joel’s nightstand, searching for cash but only finding the usual items—his pistol, which I unfortunately can’t pawn since it’s registered to his name—a self help book about personal discipline, and a few condoms. Those are new, but I can’t bring myself to care about who my husband might be fucking.
I manage to find a little bit of cash—about thirty dollars—in his dirty pants pockets, which I toss into the duffel bag. He won’t even notice it’s gone.
After packing the bag with anything else I can think of, I stop and just stand in the room. I don’t know what I expected to feel. Vindicated? Empowered? All I feel is a dull, grinding ache in my chest, like something's eroding me from the inside.
Where will I go?
The west coast comes to mind again. Somewhere like Seattle or Los Angeles. Cities so dense with people that a single soul could disappear completely. I could find some cheap apartment, maybe waitress somewhere and eventually go to college. Change my name, start anew.
But even that feels enormous right now.
I shake the doubt away. One step at a time, I remind myself, just like I did that first night I ran away from here. Just like I did when I told Ambrose goodbye without him even knowing it, even as my heart screamed at me not to.
I hate that part of me still wants to believe him. The part that wants to collapse in his arms so he can tell me it’ll all be okay.
But no, I can’t trust anyone who twists the truth to manipulate me, no matter what his intentions were.
I zip the bag and toss it by the front door. I’m grabbing a spare blanket from the closet when I hear it.
The unmistakable sound of the front door opening.
Then closing.
Every muscle in my body goes rigid. I stop breathing. My ears ring.
Heavy, measured footsteps sound in the hallway, and I’d know the ominous sound of those boots anywhere.
Joel.
My brain splinters into fragments, each one offering a solution to this problem but none of them viable. Maybe I can hide. I stagger back a few steps and inch toward the bedroom window, yanking the curtain aside with shaky hands.
His patrol car is parked right out front.
Fuck.
He’s not supposed to be here. For years, he’s worked the same shift, rarely coming home during his lunch.
Panic claws its way through my stomach.
The bedroom door is closed, but there’s no other escape route. Maybe he won’t come in here. I consider hiding beneath the bed, but if he finds me while I’m lying on the ground, I’ll have no fighting chance. At least if I stay upright, I might be able to run.
His footsteps come closer, and sheer, panicked terror freezes me in place.
The last time I tried to escape him, I couldn’t leave the house for weeks afterward, my body covered in blotchy purple bruises and my spirit broken.
If he catches me now, it will be a hundred times worse. I won’t make it out alive.
The floorboards creak right outside the door.
“Brielle?”
He’s here. He knows I’m here. Shit. I left the bag by the door.
A shadow breaks the sliver of light beneath the door.
What the hell do I do?
I hold my breath, and the bedroom door opens.
Joel stands frozen, as do I, as we stare each other down—me in terror, and him with a range of emotions flitting across his expression in rapid succession. Shock, confusion, suspicion, anger.
“Where the hell have you been?” he demands.
“I—um, I just...” I trail off. What the hell could I possibly say? There’s no lying my way out of this one, no pretending to be the docile wife who doesn’t know what’s happening. I’ve been away for almost three months now.
“You what?” Joel crosses his arms over his chest, staring me down with growing rage brewing in his eyes.
I take a step backward but lift my chin. “I left.”
“No fucking shit. Where? Who were you with?”
Of course he wouldn’t ask why. No, that would involve a critique of him and me explaining why I was unhappy. He doesn’t give a damn about that. He simply wants to know if someone else took ownership of the woman he deems his property.
But I’m done with hiding, with appeasing men who don’t deserve my attention, much less my obedience. No longer will I be a woman who makes myself smaller to fill the roles others carve out for me.
“It doesn’t matter,” I tell Joel in a firm tone as I take another step backward. “I left because I couldn’t handle being here for another second. We’re better off without each other, and I think you know that too.”
He scoffs. “Do you know how fucking embarrassing this has been for me? Having to make excuses about why my wife has disappeared after slitting her wrists? My reputation has been under fire because you decided you’d rather go off gallivanting who-knows-where, so I look like an idiot who can’t even keep control of his wife. ”
“That’s the problem. You want control over me, and all I’ve ever wanted from you is love and acceptance. You couldn’t even give me that. You tried to erase every piece of me that didn’t fit the caricature you had imagined for a wife. I became a shell of myself who was too afraid to live.”
His face reddens as his fury grows. “I gave you everything—a nice house, money for good food and clothes, a life where you don’t have to work.
When we met, you barely had enough money to feed yourself, let alone do anything with your life.
Hell, your parents didn’t even give a shit if they ever saw you again once you left. You’d be nothing without me.”
My heart races at the familiar sight of him clenching and unclenching his fists at his sides. I take another small step back.
“That’s the problem,” I say, even as my hands shake and my heart pounds. “You never even asked me what I wanted. I’d rather be broke and happy than provided for and miserable.” He rolls his eyes, as if my use of the word “miserable” is some melodramatic overstatement.
“You don’t know what you want,” he sneers.
“I do,” I say calmly. “And I’m leaving again. For good this time.”
“Like hell you are.”
Fear spikes in my veins when he takes a step toward me, then another.
But I take my final step backward and feel the back of my legs hit the bedside table next to Joel’s side of the bed.
In an instant, I wrench the drawer open and grab the pistol Joel has kept there in all the time we’ve been together.
He stops only a few feet away from me, his eyes wide with shock as I flick the safety off and point the pistol at him.
“Put that down before you hurt yourself.” It figures that even in the face of death, he’s still a cocky asshole.
“No.”
That one words shifts something irrevocably between us. Courage surges through me, and he’s entirely thrown off kilter, like he expected me to listen to him without question, like I truly don’t know what I’m doing by pointing a gun at him.
His hand moves to his hip, where his work-issued gun is holstered.
“Don’t move or I’ll shoot.”
He halts his movement.
“Brielle,” he warns, his voice softer now as he raises his palms toward me. “You’re overreacting. You’re emotional about this, and I get that. But don’t do anything stupid. Killing me is not the answer.”
A laugh bubbles up in my throat, and I’m fully aware that I look absolutely deranged right now.
Joel’s expression morphs to one of panicked confusion, but I can’t stop laughing.
Maybe it’s the stress, or maybe I have really lost my mind.
But leave it to him to blame an action as severe as pointing a gun at him on my being emotional.
I want to inform him that I’ve killed multiple people over the last few months, premeditated murders with careful planning and precision.
I killed men just like him, who love power more than anything else, who use that power to hurt others.
I don’t tell him, though. I’m not sure he would believe me if I did.
“Brielle,” he says again, this time with more urgency. “Just put down the gun and we can talk this out.”
I cock an eyebrow. “Really? And how do you suppose we’ll talk it out?”
“I—I can change,” he blurts, desperate to get out of this situation.
Too bad for him, I’ve heard all this bullshit before, and I don’t believe him for a second. Men like him never change.
“I don’t believe you,” I say matter-of-factly.
Right before I pull the trigger.