“Simon,” I whisper, rising to my feet. “What is this?” I hold out the book as if it’s a repugnant thing.
He clicks the door shut. In two strides, he’s crossed the room and snatched the book from my fingers.
We stare at each other for a moment, and in his eyes I see a depth I haven’t seen before, or more accurately, a darkness. The seed of suspicion and doubt that had germinated in my stomach now sprouts. “You…” I can’t seem to speak the words.
Instead, Simon speaks them for me. “I killed James Lovell.” He holds the book up. “And others, but only those who deserve to die. Only those the police ignore.”
My mouth opens and then closes as my limbs grow heavy, numb. My husband is a murderer. A confessed killer.
Simon takes a step back from me, and smoothly opens the top drawer of his dresser, his eyes on me. And I watch with horror as he withdraws a revolver. Am I about to be his next victim?
“No, Simon,” I say, wanting to scream, but my voice won’t cooperate. I’m not sure who will hear me and come running anyway. The servants’ quarters are beneath the kitchen. Too far and too deep to hear a woman’s scream.
Simon’s mouth twists into an ugly smile and he says, “You would think I’d use this to kill my own wife?”
How can I answer this? How can any wife of a murderer answer?
With his dark gaze steady on mine, he turns the revolver upon himself.
TWELVE
This time my scream is piercing. I lunge for Simon, unsure of what I might accomplish. My strength against him is no match. I slam into his arm, and he staggers backward, but he doesn’t fall. Instead of pushing me off, he grasps me around the waist. “What are you doing, Vivian?” he growls.
“Don’t shoot yourself,” I sob. “Please.” I fumble for the revolver, which he still grips in one hand. I’ve never handled a gun, and the cold steel is hard, smooth, unforgiving. Deadly.
He lets me take the revolver from him, and once I have it, I don’t know what to do with it. I can feel his gaze on me though, and I can hear his short staccato breaths. My legs tremble as I walk to the bureau and set the revolver inside the drawer, then slide it shut.
I take a deep breath, letting it travel the length of my body, then turn to face the man I no longer know.
“What have you done?” I whisper. What have I done? If I hadn’t pressed Bethany for information about her bruises, then shared it with Simon, would Mr. Lovell still be alive? No, I tell myself. My confession to Simon cannot be considered an accomplice to his terrible deed. Perhaps he didn’t write the truth. Perhaps he wrote some twisted tale. The diary is on the floor between us now. “Did you write the truth?”
Simon bends to pick up the book, keeping his eyes on the blank leather bound cover. “I will buy a home in the country for you. You may decorate it however you like, host parties and events, invite your friends. I will remain here.”
His eyes finally lift to meet mine. The color is less dark now, more of the blue that I used to know and love. The hardness has softened into pain and vulnerability.
“How can you do those things?” I say, my voice cracking. I wonder if I will every truly catch my breath or speak normally again. “They are innocent—”
“None of them are innocent,” Simon cuts in, his tone a harsh thing. He takes a step toward me and stops when I back up against the bureau. “None of the people I’ve… taken out… are innocent. They are despicable humans, not fit for living.”
I bring a trembling hand up to my mouth, not believing, not understanding. “So you… just kill them? Who do you think you are, God?”
His eyes grow hard again and become so dark they’re almost black. “God has nothing to do with this—and that’s why I must do something. I cannot sleep, I cannot eat, I cannot live with myself until justice is done.”
I wrap my arms about my torso as hot tears slip down my cheeks. “What happens when you’re caught?” I look at the diary still clutched in his hand. “You’ve written it all down, as if you want to be discovered.”
I wait for his anger, for his denial, but instead, he turns slowly from me and crosses to the windows. Pulling back the heavy drapes, he stares out into the darkness.
I watch him. I study the lines of his back, the broadness of his shoulders, and the arms that have held me many times. The tilt of his head is so familiar, the color of his skin, and the slight curl of his hair at the nape of his neck. His suit is immaculately tailored, and he runs a million-dollar business. Yet… I try to reconcile the Simon I know intimately with the Simon he is to the New York City public and the Simon who wrote such terrible revelations in that diary.
“I don’t want to be discovered,” he says in a voice so low that I almost don’t hear it. “I don’t want to go to prison or to die slowly in an insane asylum.” He turns to face me then and tosses the diary onto the bed between us. “That’s what will happen, Vivian, if I’m discovered.” He pauses a heartbeat. “Will you turn me in?”
My Simon is looking at me. His blue eyes are intense, but not hard. His mouth is slightly open, and the shadow of whiskers paints his face. His hands hang at his sides, empty and waiting. For me.
And then I know my decision.
“I won’t turn you in,” I whisper. “But you can’t…” I blink back the tears and swallow my sob. “You can’t keep killing. Promise me.”
He holds my gaze for so long that I wonder if he’ll answer. Or if he’ll send me away to the country after all. If this is the end of our marriage.
He turns toward the window again. And it’s then that I notice that his hands are shaking. My heart tugs toward him, but I don’t allow myself to move. How is it possible that I feel compassion for a man who could do such things? It’s as if my heart is a foreigner in its own body.
When he finally speaks, his words are simple. “I promise, Vivian. But you will have to lock me up on the nights when vengeance heats up my blood and won’t let my mind rest.”
THIRTEEN
“Lock me up tonight,” Simon tells me, and I can’t look him in the eye. Those blue eyes that only remind me of his intelligence and love have now become a gray blur because of my tears.
“Lock you up?” I ask. It’s seems a cruel request, both for him and for me. But I have to remind myself that the man standing before me is a murderer. “How?”
The edge of his mouth lifts. “You won’t have to force me with a revolver, if that’s what you’re asking. Just don’t let me out. No matter what.”
He steps toward me, and this time I don’t retreat. I allow him to encircle me with the arms that I once trusted, although now, I am unsure. Perhaps I am in shock. Perhaps I am dreaming.
I feel my body meld with his, and a deep well of grief starts inside of me—grief for my shattered illusions. My husband is not the man society thinks him to be. But he is still my Simon, I tell myself. And he needs my help.
I could leave. I could return to my parents. I could live in the country as he suggests. Or I can remain by his side as his wife, while I fulfill his request.
“Come,” he says in a soft voice. He releases me and takes my hand with his hand that has killed many men. The strength of his fingers has a different meaning now.
Without a word, I walk with him out of his bedchamber and down the corridor until we reach the far end. He opens the door to the narrow staircase leading to the attic, and we ascend together, clasping hands, with Simon leading the way.
He takes down the key that sits on top of the doorframe, then opens the door. Dust tickles my senses as we step into the attic room. Crates are stacked in one corner, and two high windows let in the light of the moon. The air is dry and musty, and I look around for a place for Simon to sleep, hardly believing that he could be comfortable up here.
But when I look at him and see the darkening of his eyes, I want to leave his presence. I am afraid of my own husband.
“Go now,” he says, handing over the key and stepping back from me.
W
hatever is happening inside of him, even I cannot stop it. This I realize as I hurry out of the attic space and shut the door, firmly turning the lock with my key. Simon hits the door just as I start down the first step. The sound reverberates through my entire being and I gasp.
“Simon!” I call. “What’s wrong?”
“Just go!” he calls back, his voice an anguished cry. Another thud against the door.
The sound startles me into action. Sobs tear against my throat as I practically stumble down the steps to the second floor of the house. I race along the corridor, my heart pounding blood against my ears.
I fling myself onto my bed and tug the covers up over my head, blocking out all light from the moon. But no matter how hard I press my hands against my ears, I can still hear the distant banging against the door in the attic. I don’t know how long it takes my husband to go silent or how long it takes me to fall asleep, but when I next awake the sunlight is streaming through my windows.
FOURTEEN
I scramble out of bed and barely remember to grab a robe. Then I rush to the attic stairs, hoping that one of the maids doesn’t see me hurrying down the hallway. At the top of the steps, I unlock the door, my heart pounding so hard I can barely hear my own breathing.
“Simon?” I whisper into the filtered light of the attic.
Then I see him. He’s curled up on the floor, not moving.
“Simon?” I say again, this time louder.
He stirs and opens his eyes. When he sees me, it takes him a moment to focus… and to remember.
“Are you all right?” I ask, rushing to his side and kneeling down in the dust.
He rises to an elbow and pulls me against him. Burying his face against my neck, he says, “I need to drag a mattress up here.”
I exhale. I had been so afraid last night, for myself, for Simon, for our future. But here he is, safe. And I am safe.
I nestle against him and sigh away all my questions. I have many things to ask him, about his rage last night, about his justifications for killing another person, about our future together. But for now, I will let my husband of two faces hold me in his arms.
And tomorrow night, and possibly the next, I’ll lock him once again in the attic until he can be strong enough to keep his demon inside.
Q&A with H.B. Moore
I loved the feeling of old-time elegance mixed with chilling violence that this story evokes. What inspired this plot?
I wanted to write about a husband/wife relationship that could endure an extreme challenge in which the spouses make unexpected, complicated choices. My choice for the turn-of-the century setting creates many advantages for my characters as well as limitations for the law and police force. Evidence and proof are harder to come by and criminals can be much more elusive. Author friend Simon Wood and I decided to add each others names into an upcoming story. Because Simon writes pretty scary stuff, I told him he’d be the villain in my story. But the character-Simon had a mind of his own, and even though the entire story is told through the wife’s viewpoint, Simon turned out to be someone you’d always “hope” would be on your side.
Do you ever scare yourself when you write stories?
Like most writers, my imagination can be very vivid, and if I’m not careful, I could probably let things spiral quite deeply and lose any desire to turn off lights or leave the house. Writing an intense or scary scene isn’t nearly as impactful as reading one—in which you don’t know the outcome—and I absolutely don’t read scary stuff at bedtime, or when it’s nighttime, or when my husband is out of town, or...
Is “Two Faces” similar to your other writing? What are you working on currently?
I write in several genres including thrillers, science fiction (YA), romance, women’s fiction, and light paranormal. I’d say the mood of “Two Faces” is close to my Gothic romance Heart of the Ocean, which is in 1840’s New England. My best villain is found in my historical thriller Daughters of Jared. And for those who enjoy fast-paced intense thrillers, Slave Queen is my newest release. Currently, I’m working on another thriller called The Killing Curse which deals with honor killings in the Middle East.
Where can readers find you and learn more about new releases?
Visit my website to for all updates. Be sure to sign up for my newsletter and receive a free e-book: www.hbmoore.com. Or join my Fans of H.B. Moore group on Facebook: www.facebook.com/groups/37783537691/
Loving Frankie
by Patrice Fitzgerald
Her stomach hurt a lot now. She moved a bit to try to get into a more comfortable position.
Who was going to pick up Shannon? Well, she was a resourceful girl. She had lots of friends. Way more friends than Faith had at her age. Faith never brought other girls home when she was young.
But Shannon would be fine. If her mom didn’t show up after Saturday band practice, she’d ask someone to drive her home.
So that was off her mind. Shannon would be okay.
Dylan… hmm. Dylan was at soccer. He loved that game. Loved running down the field. Loved showing off to the other guys. Loved looking at the other guys, truth be told.
That was okay with Faith. She loved her boy. Would love him no matter what. But Frankie… well, it was going to be hard for Frankie to accept his son. He was slow to catch on about Dylan, but he would, and soon. Dylan was only 13. Her baby boy.
When his dad found out how he was, well… it’s hard to say how it would go. Would it be blows or disgust? Or both?
Actually, if it came to blows it would go bad for Frankie. Dylan was a tall kid, already, and strong for his age.
Fathers forget. By the time their sons are old enough to dare to strike back, the dads have lost the advantage. Frankie would find that out.
But not just yet.
That was a couple of years off. Not something to be all doom and gloom about now.
Faith shifted to ease the pain. She looked at the decorative tile on the side of the bathroom wall, just above the level her head was now. There was a name for it. Listello. And the color… aubergine? That’s right. Very elegant. Frankie put it in last spring when they redid the master bath.
How long had she been sitting on the bathroom floor looking up at the listello?
She and Frankie had a very nice house. Something Faith was proud of. Just like she was proud of her beautiful children, so successful and popular.
She could hear Frankie pacing outside the bathroom. He probably felt bad about her stomach. He ought to.
Not a real sympathetic guy, her Frankie. But, oh boy, she loved him.
The door edged open and she could see Frankie peeking in. He saw her there on the floor, but he didn’t say anything. He still had that look. She called it his Mr. Hard look. He was still angry.
Such a foolish man. It was going to go bad for him.
Funny thing. One of the things she loved about Frankie was that little boy in him. Actually, he was mostly little boy. Full of enthusiasm and energy a lot of the time. Fun to be with. Most of the time.
But when he got mad. Oh boy! Like a toddler with a tantrum. She smiled, thinking of him like a toddler throwing his toys against the wall. Pretty funny that she should be smiling thinking of Frankie right now.
Frankie had always needed someone to take care of him. And that’s what she did. Indulge his whims and pick up the toys after he messed everything up.
Her bond to Frankie was more than love. It was need. She needed him for all that playfulness. And he needed her for everything.
They both had flaws. His flaw was his Mr. Hard part. And Faith’s flaw was loving him.
The door to the bathroom opened. Frankie came in, his eyes different now. He wasn’t Mr. Hard anymore. He was Mr. Soft. That was the look that came after. The look when his brain seemed to wake up again.
“Oh my God, Faithie. Oh my God.”
He rushed over to her side where she was lying propped against the wall. He almost slipped on the blood. She smelled the stink coming from her gu
t. She was embarrassed at her smell.
She wondered what he had done with the knife.
“Oh my God Faithie. What happened? Oh my God.” He pulled her against his chest, blood and all. It hurt a lot, but it also felt good.
Oh but she loved her Frankie.
“Don’t die on me,” he said, rocking her against him. “Don’t you dare die on me. What would I do without you?”
What would he do? Faith didn’t know. Somehow she couldn’t worry about that any more.
She wondered where she would go. Heaven, of course. Right? She’d been good.
But had she? Would a better woman have made it impossible for Frankie to get to this place, sitting on the bloody bathroom floor rocking his dying wife?
She didn’t know any more. She had done her best. She had stayed with him. That had felt like love.
One time Mrs. Cunningham up the street had seen Faith with a black eye under her sunglasses and told her to go talk to the priest. But what point was there in talking? Faith knew what the priest would say. A wife’s place was with her husband, no matter what.
So here she was.
And where would Frankie go? Jail, of course. That would be hard on the kids.
Shannon would help, though. So together. Nothing like her mom. Always very brave and independent—no boyfriend, at sixteen, even though she was a beautiful girl. Faith was proud of that in her. Her independence. Shannon looked at the boys who hovered around her like she didn’t want them to get too close.
It was easy to understand why.
Shannon would make it like a family for Dylan. Dad in jail, Mom gone. They would go to Nancy, of course. Nancy, Faith’s little sister who had always worried that this day would come.
She had been right. It was coming all along. From the moment on their honeymoon when Frankie had punched Faith in the gut, it had been coming. Nancy knew it. And Faith knew it, even though she pretended not to. Only Frankie hadn’t known.
MOSTLY MURDER: Till Death: a mystery anthology Page 10
