Chapter Twenty-Three
It’s WEDNESDAY, two days after I discovered who Brian is not, and I’m no closer to knowing who he actually is. But that doesn’t stop the world from turning, and I’m up early to sprint on my treadmill for half an hour before hurrying to find time to bathe with a shower coffee.
It’s a thing, really.
By the time the girls are up, I’m dressed, caffeinated, and ready for another day as a Perfect Mother as I split my time between stalking the pharmacist and searching for anything and everything on Brian.
I have no specific deadline, but John has made it clear—kill him, already.
But I’m not satisfied he’s bad enough to kill yet.
In fact, I have an old yearbook pulled up on an ancestry site—from the high school he supposedly attended—when the garage door grumbles to life.
“Daddy?” Eliza pops her head up from her bowl of oatmeal, hope widening her eyes.
“Honey, Daddy’s in Washington, DC—” I say the words in my calm voice, but I’m barreling through the kitchen door to the garage, because someone has found a way to open it.
I never leave a garage door opener in my car—it’s simply a bad idea.
Break a car window, hit a button, and poof, you have access to an entire home.
Worse, everyone I know—including Graham, who won’t listen to reason—leaves it in plain sight on the sun visor.
Practically an invitation to walk right into his house. I may or may not know from experience.
But garage doors are not infallible. For a long time, only a certain number of electronic codes were made.
Criminals could literally drive in circles through neighborhoods, hitting an opener until a garage popped open.
Now things are a bit more sophisticated, but that doesn’t make them foolproof.
People linking all their locks to home apps with a single password has only made things worse.
Or, when I need to kill someone, easier.
I’m about to reach for the gun in the biometric safe behind the rack of shelves that holds our camping equipment—but I recognize the sleek, black BMW pulling in. My stomach does something funny, and for a moment, I think I might puke up my espresso. At least it would blend in with the paint job.
“Surprise!” Brian calls as he shoves open the car door and engulfs me in a hug.
It takes effort to melt into his arms. To pretend to be happy to see him. To, when I see the pride on his face—that he surprised his girls coming home early from across the country!—not mutter, Right, like driving from Austin to San Antonio is hard.
“I know the girls have school today, but I was thinking…” Brian begins as Eliza and Evie press their way through the door to the garage, eyes lit up with excitement.
What little girls don’t love when their daddy comes home from work?
Especially when he’s been gone for days?
“What if we all take the day off and go to the zoo instead?”
Eliza jumps up and down, clapping her hands together. Evie spins in circles. Somewhere in the house, Bear barks at the commotion, joining in on the excitement. It’s all I can do to not punch Brian in the face.
Instead, I smile and say, “That sounds lovely, dear.”
—
The zoo was a horrible idea.
It’s already ninety degrees, Evie has had two meltdowns because I won’t let her eat ice cream at ten a.m., and Eliza abruptly decides she’s mad she didn’t go to school.
“But I like school, Mommy! My friends are there. Zoey’s going to wonder if I died…”
Five going on fifteen. I can just imagine what the teenage years will be like.
I force a patient smile on my face, kneel down to eye level with her, and say, “I know, honey, and that’s wonderful, but Daddy’s been out of town and he thought—”
“More ice cream! Look!” Evie’s cry is all but deafening, even over the birdcalls and music piped through the whole area.
The San Antonio Zoo is inarguably one of the best zoos in the country, but it also has ice cream about every five feet—right alongside colorful plastic toys that cost too much and break within five minutes of going home.
I sigh.
Brian sighs.
Our gazes meet and his lips quirk up—that special moment where we both know exactly what the other person is thinking, even in the midst of childhood chaos.
Any other day I would smile back. I’d roll my eyes.
I’d ask if maybe we should give in and get ice cream and maybe an early lunch, then go feed the giraffes or meet the kangaroos.
But today, I’m mad at him. His attempt at family time after spending the last several days not in DC and with a woman who is not me leaves my emotions even more stunted than usual, lets the monster gnash her teeth a little anytime he looks my way.
“Maybe we should take a little break?” I suggest. A small grassy area offers relief just down the next trail, cooling misters set up for days like today, and the girls break into a run, racing to get there first.
Unfortunately, that leaves me one-on-one with Brian.
He reaches for my hand, and my only thought is that I wish I’d applied barrier ointment and, on top of that, poison.
Something that would penetrate his skin.
Maybe cyanide with a DMSO carrier. Or ricin.
That would be better—harder to test for, more easily mistaken for the common flu.
It couldn’t be tied back to me, not after I washed thoroughly.
And we’re at the zoo. Hundreds of thousands of people go through here every month.
Even if the poison was found…they’d never know who planted it.
To keep the girls safe, I’d suggest they wear princess gowns along with their fancy elbow-length gloves.
They’d think I’m the coolest mom ever, and the problem of my husband could be solved in one fell swoop.
Easy peasy banana squeezy, as Evie is fond of saying, thanks to her preschool teacher.
I tuck that idea into my back pocket for another kill and let Brian snuggle me close.
After a moment, he releases my hand and surges forward to pick up the girls, one in either arm, and spin them around.
His glasses tumble loose. I fight the urge to “accidentally” step on them.
But that’s petty, and if and when I do bad things to him, I plan to be generous—the prospect of torture sounds particularly nice today. I will generously torture him.
My phone rings in my crossbody bag, and I step to one side, mouthing, Work call, to Brian. He frowns, but he’s the one who planned a random zoo trip in the middle of my workweek—he’ll just have to deal.
“Hello?”
“Is he dead?” John gets right to the point.
“No. I told you—”
He huffs. “Right. Well, figure out what he did that was so bad, and get the job done. I’m getting pressure from up top. They want him dead and now.”
I frown. “What’s the hurry?”
“No clue. Just get it done.”
“What’s wrong?” Brian’s voice comes from right behind me. I jump, tucking my work phone away—which, thankfully, is identical to my regular phone—and whirl to find him eyeing me. Like he was listening in.
He adjusts his glasses, smiles wide, his teeth showing, and nods back toward the girls. “Come on, let’s get Evie that ice cream after all.”
I can’t pretend anymore. Brian is obviously doing something he shouldn’t be.
And I’m on edge, about to lose control. Maybe it will be easier once he’s gone.
At least in some ways—dealing with the girls’ grief will be difficult.
They’ll probably need therapy. But maybe then I’ll at least be settled in the knowledge I’m raising our girls by myself, without resenting their father’s lies day in and day out.
Instead of circling this drain of uncertainty while the monster residing inside me rubs her hands together as though she were about to burst out of the prison I keep her locked down in tight.
When I think of killing Brian, it’s not just him I’d be killing—it would also be my ability to be this version of Nadia. This perfect wife and mother. Yesterday in the forest was a warning, a reminder to pay attention.
If only I could figure out who he really is and what he’s done—what’s so awful that he is next on the hit list. Then I’d know what to do. The monster wants out, and for the first time since I married Brian, I’m afraid she might manage it.
I blow out a breath. I need to just do this, get it over with. So maybe I will. Maybe, tomorrow, I’ll kill him.