Psychological Thriller Boxed Set

by Addison Moore

  He couldn’t remember the days of the week, and whether or not he had remembered to eat was a question mark. Everything was happening and nothing would stick. A part of me wants to disavow Simone’s news clipping and what it might mean. Dismiss it as evidence of a paranoid woman who lost her mind after her children were taken so horrifically from her. I can’t imagine the horror. One minute they are playing, laughing, filling the air with their happy-go-lucky squeals, and the next dead silence. Twin bodies lying motionless, facedown, asleep like dolls. Only God knows what happened. I’ve read reports. I’ve read everything about them. After Bram and I met that first night, I went home and did my due diligence, combed through a plethora of archived information on the Internet. I Googled the shit out of them. Early on, the armchair sleuths determined that one of the twins lost his or her footing, maybe he or she had gotten a cramp and panicked, and the other drowned in an effort to help. They say that’s common, a drowning man often takes down his rescuer. Unless you have a floatation device to help them, you will become one. As terrible as it would be not to help the one begging for mercy, you have to go into the situation knowing it might just be your last day yet. They think it was Henry who was in trouble. Maybe asthma, maybe it was a game gone wrong, sibling rivalry, demonic possession. The Internet was rife with all kinds of theories. But I did think of Simone, even on that first day that I met Bram. How colorful and perfect her life was up until that fated moment. You could scroll through her social media and feel you really knew her when you were done. So cheery. Such an unmatched zest for life. She was living her best life with her best children, and the man she thought was her best husband until one tragedy begot the next. Terror upon terror. She was Job from the Bible, only she didn’t get the happy ending. She got the hammer.

  “Mommy!” Lilly comes over shrieking. “Jack won’t share with me.” She smacks her lips in a cute frenetic way that makes the sound of bubbles rising from under water, and my muscles freeze. Isla and Henry flash through my mind.

  “Jack? Share or no video games.” It’s a lie, though. I’ll need to keep them occupied tonight. Once Bram comes home, we have plenty of things to discuss.

  Lilly speeds off and I’m left ruminating once again, the dizzy carousel of those haunting words. Three homeless prostitutes dead in New York during the same time frame Peter was stepping out on Simone. All of them with one of their fingers missing, same finger, pinky. Just like the woman that I found at the fundraiser that night. Just like the woman I heard about staying at the same hotel as Bram. Fingers as trophies for a madman.

  “Knock, knock!” The cheerful cry of a female catches me off guard from behind.

  My head turns so fast, breaking my neck is a real possibility, and I freeze solid once I spot her. All I see is red.

  My mother, the newfound skeleton, is attempting to make a debut in my own backyard. I’m moved to snap her neck and dig a shallow grave to commemorate the event. If it weren’t for the kids, I might have.

  “Get out,” my voice is low and guttural, the growl of a demon.

  “Now, now.” Her face configures into a painful looking grimace. She’s lost so much weight there’s nothing but loose skin everywhere you look. Maybe that’s why she’s back. She’d like to reinstate our old act—perhaps with my own children so she can get the money to snip her skin off. She has always been a waste of skin. I say they take it all off. Let her walk around this planet like the monster she is.

  She falls into the seat next to me, and my adrenaline hits new heights. It’s as if I’ve stepped out of my body. My own vocal cords betray me with their inability to perform. Can’t breathe.

  “You know, funny little story.” She leans forward a bit as her eyes inspect the children. “Your Lilly is just as scrappy as you were. Looks as if someone rewound time about twenty years.” Her tongue clicks against the roof of her mouth. “That Jack is all Bram. But that’s not his real name, now is it?”

  A chill runs through me. So many options on how to dispose of her body, so little time to analyze the situation.

  I will kill my mother. I already know this. And then I will either frame my sister for it as punishment for hauling this witch back into our midst or I’ll do away with her, too.

  One of the many therapists I saw in the aftermath of my mother’s original destruction suggested that I rid my life of toxic people. I think it’s high time I take her advice.

  “Aw, come on, Aubree girl.”

  A shiver runs through me when she calls me by that name. Aubree girl. I was her Aubree girl when she needed me to take those questionable meds. When she was holding my hair back while I puked my scant dinner into the toilet. While I wrung out my insides from the insane diarrhea she inflicted on me. I was her Aubree girl when she placed my feeble body in that wheelchair and paraded me around her coworkers, the local churches, anyone with a pocket.

  “You know”— her hot pink nails claw at the table a moment, but her gaze remains pinned on the kids—“you were, and still are, my favorite. I don’t know why, but Lena never could stand up in the same light. She was lost in your shadow, even in my own eyes. What a terrible thing for a mother to admit.” A dull laugh pumps from her. “But it’s us, alone. We can share secrets. So tell me, did he kill her? The wife. Simone, was it? How painful to have a hammer pounded over you. Rumor has it, they found bits and pieces of her sprayed all over that house. Read all about it as soon as Lena told me who he was.”

  My stomach churns. Bile burns the back of my throat at the thought of Lena and my mother discussing my husband, Simone. Simone feels sacred to me, especially after reading her private thoughts, knowing her innermost secrets. Lena is officially dead to me. Simone is my new sister. A dead one, too. I seem to be collecting corpses these days, and soon enough my mother will up the number.

  “You know what I don’t get?” Her eyes dart in my direction briefly, and that fire brewing in my belly stokes ten times hotter. “Why in the world would you let that chicken girl get some alone time with your Peter? Anyone with eyes can see she’s got the hots for him. Don’t tell me I raised a fool. Aubree girl, you can see it, too. She told me all about those appointments they have in his office. His hands touching her mouth, stroking her tongue like he means it. You know what she said? She said she ran into him downtown and they had drinks one night. Imagine that! Your Peter and chicken woman. Now I don’t know what happened next, but she made it sound like she had a fantastic time.” She shakes her head, and Lilly looks over at the two of us with caution, inspecting this woman by my side as if she might be trouble. Lilly has always been a perceptive child.

  My mother chortles before taking a breath. “Said she’s filing for a legal separation from her husband. He doesn’t understand her. He doesn’t get the obsession with the birds. She’s had enough. But, of course, that frees up space in her social calendar. I suspect there will be plenty more bar crawls in her future. Maybe Peter’s, too? You never know with this kind of thing. Most marriages don’t make it. It’s just a matter of time.” She gets up and waves to Lilly who’s stopped all movement, looking at us with her thumb pressed to her lips. “Good to see you!” she cheers her way, and Lilly offers a shy smile back. Jack is too busy digging a ditch and running one of Bram’s old Hot Wheels through it.

  And then she is gone.

  A cool breeze washes her away, and it’s only then I realize I’m soaked in sweat.

  My nails are embedded in my palms, a prickling of blood in their wake.

  Lilly runs over. Her tiny nose is wrinkled with curiosity. “Mommy, who was that?”

  “That was a very bad woman.”

  “Bad woman?”

  “That’s right, Lilly. If she ever comes near you—run.”

  I’d do the same, but it’s a little hard to kill someone when they’re not in your grasp.

  Now, how to do it. What a wonderful project my mother has given me.

  Death waits for you, Mother.

  And only then will I truly live.

>   Bram

  That horrible day. I will never forget it. Simone called me in tears, her garbled voice panicked, afraid, riddled so thick with grief it was impossible to know what happened. She relayed there had been an accident. In the background, I could hear the shrill screams of a young girl who later I would come to find out was the sitter. Right then, not only did my world upend, but an unearthly numbness took over, brazen shock. You could have run me over with a Semi, and I wouldn’t have felt a thing. My head pulsated, my heart jackhammered, but it was as if I were watching myself from the ceiling. It all unfolded in such a surreal manner. Every last second of that terrible day is ingrained indelibly in my memory. From the weather, to the way I sobbed inconsolably that night on the kitchen floor. It was all too much to believe.

  The numbness hadn’t had a chance to subside when Simone died. We had just buried our children. The bitter taste of our new normal, one without the cheerful faces of our sweet angels. And I hated that everyone referred to Isla and Henry as angels. I didn’t want to see them as ethereal entities floating on clouds, strumming on harps. I wanted them grounded on earth, feet to solid ground, having every day normal problems that we would detangle as a family.

  My mother reminded me that they belonged to God. I didn’t want them to belong to God. I wanted them to belong to me. But nonetheless, when Simone was senselessly slaughtered, the numbness thickened around me. I had become congealed in its silent bubble. Nothing was believable anymore. It was all some cruel joke playing out. Theater of the gods. I played the part of Troubled Man. It was a tragedy I wanted no part in and couldn’t figure out how to escape.

  But this afternoon, after stumbling upon Simone’s own cryptic words, that numbness made a stark reprisal. Anything you can do, I can do better. I can destroy anything better than you. It was a funny quip left on her Facebook page met with cheers and emoji high fives from others. It was something she would sing to me often in jest, the second stanza in its correct form. It was cute and funny, and it was our thing. But the date, the picture of the New York skyline that went along with it, puts it at the exact time I was in fact in New York for a convention. I remember that trip specifically.

  I remember that day. It was the same day I broke it off with Loretta. We were done. I was through with being Peter the Wife Cheater. I was ready to face Simone’s wrath in a whole other way. I was gearing up to ask for a divorce. I had an attorney on retainer to the tune of five thousand dollars. There was an entire plan on how I would present this to Simone. It would be a weekend. I would have secured a place to stay first. I had put in applications for local rental homes—the owners of which all promptly came forward once I was the chief suspect in my wife’s murder. Of course, they accused me of somehow sneaking off and killing the kids that day at the lake despite the fact records indicate I was seeing two patients that hour, both of whom spoke on my behalf. But the world wants to hear what its itching ears demand. And in the eyes of the world, I was a baby killer, a wife bludgeoner. I had done this. I was tried, convicted, drawn and quartered in the court of public opinion. Rome was burning, and for so long I wondered who really lit the flame. For so long I shouldered the blame. This was God repaying me for my sins. I was an adulterer. I deserved an implosion of my sanity. I wasn’t thoughtful enough to consider the children or my wife during my philandering ways so He took them back. For so long I believed it and accepted it. Right up until this afternoon. Those cryptic words Simone posted that day reverberate in my mind: I can destroy anything better than you.

  What did you do, Simone? What in the hell did you do?

  As soon as I get home, I race up the porch and let myself in, unable to chirp out a cheery hello. The kids are running around in the backyard. I could hear their carefree voices from the driveway floating into the sky like hot air balloons. From the dining room window, I spot Ree heading this way. Her eyes are already pinned to mine. No smile.

  Mace will be the first one I confide in. My mind is spinning with every damn theory. A loose cannon shooting off misery wherever I look.

  “Bram?” Ree stalks in and slams the door shut behind her. Her hair is wild, and that wide-eyed look in her eyes now registers as rage. “Have you ever had drinks or dinner with other women while we’ve been married?” Her mouth falls open, her breathing reduced to short huffs.

  My insides seize. What the hell?

  “No. I save all of my dinners and drinks for you.” Something warms in me as I close the gap between us and reel her in, but Ree pushes my hand away before I can seize her.

  “Drinks with Astrid Montenegro. Does that ring a bell?”

  A quick memory of that evening at the Thirsty Fox comes to mind. A part of me says deny it, call that cock-loving woman a lying bitch. Don’t give her the pleasure of making me acknowledge something that I never wanted to happen. Don’t let her make something out of nothing. But my conscience shouts own it, do not lie.

  I shake my head as if stunned the question was peppered with innuendo, but it’s purely manufactured on my part, something I think a moment like this needs. “No. I mean, she was at a bar once while I was meeting with Mace. Why? What’s this about?”

  Her eyes widen with grief, with a pain I’ve never seen in them before. “Are you having an affair?”

  “What?” I’m instantly thrown for a loop. If I had suspected Ree was angry about anything, this is the last thing that would enter my mind.

  The kids run in past us on their way to the kitchen, but neither of us moves, neither of us bothers to acknowledge them, our eyes locked magnetically to one another in a moment of utter despair.

  “Ree? What are you saying? What’s happened?” I try to get close, but she takes a full step back, her hand recoiling from my touch. “Did Astrid say something?” Stupid little bitch. She was probably setting me up the entire time. Something in my gut cinches, and I feel the need to spill it all. “She came into the office. She asked to see me only.”

  “Oh?” Her chest bucks with an incredulous laugh. “I bet she did.” Her voice hikes in volume, deep and throaty, the way she does when she’s good and pissed. The irony being that Ree has never been good and pissed at me. In fact, that’s been the healing balm in this relationship. Ree and I don’t argue. We disagree. This has been my first adult relationship that I didn’t purposefully or otherwise royally fuck up. I liked our streak. I was hoping it would last a lifetime.

  “How many times?” she insists, her voice warbling with rage. “How many times did this happen?”

  “A cleaning and two small cavities,” I spill the facts before her, trying desperately to remove the innuendo she’s laced it with. “Three times.” It takes everything I’ve got to keep my voice calm, but it’s shaking with rage, with fear. With all of the other shit I’m going through, this shouldn’t even be on the table.

  The kids run back out in a flurry, and Lilly slaps me on the leg on the way into the yard in lieu of a greeting. They’re so happy. So healthy. So very alive. Ree and I have it all. Can’t she see that?

  “I love you,” I whisper. “Why are you feeling like this? I would never do anything to jeopardize our marriage.”

  Her lips tremble, and she never breaks her gaze, but that look of disappointment, of hurt only seems to amplify. “Why you? Why does she request you?”

  A bite of heat rolls through me. I detest the direction this conversation is headed. The unspoken suggestions make me quite literally sick.

  “I don’t know.” There. The truth. “I think she’s interested in me,” I practically mouth the words, but her eyes enlarge a notch, signaling that she more than understood it.

  “So you admit it.” She shakes her head in disbelief, and I’m right there with her.

  “Look”—a small laugh chokes through me—“there’s nothing going on. I don’t know what she fed you—what anyone’s fed you, but I wouldn’t do that to you. Not to you and not to our family.”

  “You did it to Simone,” her own voice discharges in a whisper, but those
words echo through me like bells tolling for a dead man.

  “What did you say?” It can’t be. It’s as if my life is being lived in a strange parallel to the past. The past resurfacing, resurrecting, filling its lungs with a sharp breath of my present, encroaching in on me in every direction.

  Ree shakes her head, refusing to reiterate any part of it, her feet stumbling backwards as if she were trying to get away from me.

  “It’s your mother, isn’t it?” A mild sense of relief sweeps through me. “Of course. She’s gotten into your head. Filling you with all this bullshit.”

  “It’s not my mother. You cheated on Simone and you lied to her. You went to New York for a dental conference and you slept with some woman.”

  The world goes black. That numb feeling intensifies. Nothing feels real. Not me, not Ree, not those happy screeching children running wild outside.

  A small chortling laugh escapes her, the cackle of a madwoman. “You’re not denying it because you can’t. My God, you did that to her. If you did it to her, what makes me think you won’t do it to me?” Her eyes ride up and down my body as if the scales have fallen off and she’s seeing me for the very first time. “You’re a cheater?” Her body bucks with emotion. The devastation written on her face is palpable, and my heart breaks to witness it.

  “I don’t know what’s going on. I don’t know what’s happening here.” I take a step backwards myself. I’d like nothing more than to reverse this day, this lifetime, and do everything right the first time. “My God, I love you, Ree. You are everything Simone wasn’t. You are my true wife, the one I would choose over and over, and I would never even think to betray you that way.”

  “Like you betrayed her.” She nods as we both come to terms with this horrible, horrible truth circling the room like a serpent. “I think maybe you should go. You should pack your bags, and you should leave tonight. Go right now, Peter, and get out.”

  My body resonates as if I were struck on the head with a tuning fork when she said it. It felt like a gunshot to the heart when she invoked my true name.