The Replacement Wife: A Psychological Thriller

by Britney King

  “Nor do I care. Just do your job.”

  “Don’t worry so much, Tom.” Her upbeat tone grates in my ears. Typical Beth. “We’ll make things right in no time.”

  “We’ll make things right in no time,” Michael assured me. I hadn’t known at the time those would be the last words he would ever speak. Approximately twelve minutes later, he wrapped his Porsche around a tree.

  Michael was my roommate freshman year in college, back before I was smart enough to know that living in close proximity with others doesn’t work for me. Nevertheless, we developed a sort of symbiotic relationship. I kept him from flunking out of school, and he kept me from complete isolation.

  By our senior year, I’d gone through six internships and three jobs in rapid succession, on account of my people skills. Or lack thereof. Everyone understands the need for change in the abstract, but on the day-to-day level, people are creatures of habit, my boss said. It was a pointless conversation. We both knew why I was sitting in his office. He was going to fire me, but thought he’d waste my time by fitting one last lecture in first. It was a ridiculous point he was trying to drill in, about my future, about making friends. About being a team player. Apparently, calling colleagues out for tardiness and inefficiency is the opposite of that. You have to make your poison sweet, he said. He informed me he was letting me go because I seemed to be incapable of doing that. When security was called to box up the few belongings I’d kept there and escort me from the building, I guess he proved his point. I learned another thing that day. People don’t like being called out for being pacifists.

  After that, things seemed particularly hopeless. I’d learned a valuable lesson that I wasn’t sure how to apply or how to put into practice. The lesson was simple enough: employers appreciate people skills and the ability to bullshit over real knowledge. I had one but not the other. And to my detriment, it was the one that wasn’t as easily faked. It was devastating to have a problem I couldn’t solve. That’s how Michael talked me into becoming his business partner. Though back then I can’t say there was much business.

  “You don’t need the man,” Michael assured me. “You can do it on your own.”

  “What? Like my own firm?”

  “Yeah, just think about it. You’d be the boss, and you wouldn’t have to answer to anyone.”

  Admittedly, I liked the sound of that. Michael was very good at sales.

  “You’re good with numbers. I’m good with people.”

  “Wait. You want to be partners?”

  “Why not?” He shrugged. “I don’t have anything going on.”

  “How will we get clients? I can’t even keep a job.” It hit me then. The answer. “I think my problem is…I’m too honest.”

  “You just let me worry about that,” Michael insisted. “Let me do the talking. Repeat after me—” He motioned between the two of us. “Tom,” he said, pointing in my direction. “Will focus on numbers.” Then he pointed at himself. “Michael does the talking.”

  I didn’t respond. I was mulling it over.

  “Got it?”

  I knew he had a point. I had seen Michael in action. Picking up women seemed effortless—how hard could finding people who needed an accountant be? I don’t like to waste time, so I turned abruptly and asked directly, “Are you sure you’re as good at talking as I am at numbers?”

  “Equally, so. Yes.” Michael had a way of speaking my language that no one had prior and no one’s had since. Until I met Melanie.

  He’d sold me on the idea that we could make it work, and since I needed the money to pay back my student loans, it wasn’t easy to turn down an offer that made sense.

  Business started out slow, but Michael knew a lot of people and before long, things began to pick up. Over the next half-decade we did all right for ourselves. Until a downturn in the economy and subsequently in Michael’s personal life occurred. The ripple effect caused an upturn in his liquor consumption and seemingly overnight, we were struggling to stay afloat. Literally.

  Michael made the evening news when he totaled his car and the underage company he kept died as a result. Turned out they were both indisposed at the time. Before I knew it, clients were jumping ship left and right. Legal fees caused Michael to nearly lose his house. His wife left him. I leveraged the business to keep him from being both homeless and alone.

  It was a shit-show, to say the least, and we were left doing the very basic of services. Tax work, mainly.

  The silver lining through it all was my wife. June and I grew closer. Thankfully, she wasn’t too put off by the fact that we had to take the kids out of private school, or that we were going to have to put the house on the market.

  She always said things would be fine. I didn’t believe her. They looked particularly bleak that spring just after tax season ended. Michael hadn’t been coming into the office, and on the rare occasion he made an appearance, he was hammered.

  “Don’t worry, Tom,” he would assure me after each cold call. “I’m going to fix this. I have to…you’re the only friend I have left.”

  Meanwhile, I scanned the classifieds for jobs. We couldn’t keep bleeding money on operating expenses, not with so little coming in.

  By the time I landed a job, Michael had officially hit rock bottom. I knew telling him was risky. Taking the job basically meant bailing on him at a time he had nothing left, a fact he liked to remind me of often.

  When the day came to tell him I was closing the firm, much to my surprise, he actually showed for the meeting. He wasn’t alone.

  “Tom!” he exclaimed as I came out into the foyer. “I want you to meet…”

  I glanced at the three men standing beside him. Michael, it appeared, had drawn a blank. He was so sloshed he couldn’t pull their names from the rightful place in his limbic system.

  One of the men extended his hand. “I’m Mark Jones.”

  I took it hesitantly. This was just like Michael to pull a stunt when I’d resolved to do something.

  “This is Adam Morford. And that there,” he continued, motioning with the opposite hand, “is Grant Dunn. Dr. Dunn.”

  “Tom Anderson, CPA.”

  “We’ve been playing golf with your business partner,” he informed me. “And we had to meet you. Forgive us for being impulsive, but Michael tells us you’re a savant. He says you’re good with numbers.”

  I pressed my lips together.

  “Show them Tom,” Michael slurred. “Show them what you can do.”

  I showed them my party trick. It wasn’t hard. I only knew a few.

  “Listen,” the guy named Mark said. He placed his arm around my shoulders. “The guys and I—” He paused to make sure everyone was listening. I moved away. Being accosted is my second least favorite thing. “We run a little church.”

  That’s exactly what Michael needs, I thought.

  “The reason we’re here…” he continued, “is our accountant up and quit on us last week.”

  “Sorry to hear that. Good accountants are hard to come by.”

  Mark Jones laughed. “Well, he wasn’t an honest man, so good riddance, I say.”

  The other men either looked away or stared at the floor. Only briefly. But long enough that I noticed.

  “What about you, Tom?”

  I cocked my head. I didn’t know what to say, so I offered the tried and true. “What do accountants suffer from that ordinary people don’t?”

  Mark looked at his friends. Everyone shrugged. Everyone but Michael. He knew where I was going. He taught me himself.

  “Depreciation.”

  Everyone laughed. Even Michael.

  “This guy,” Mark said to the group. “I like this one.”

  Next, he looked at me directly. “Could we talk for a moment?”

  I nodded toward my office, and he followed me in. Neither of us sat.

  “I won’t beat around the bush,” he said. I appreciated that. Michael looked like he was going to ruin the office carpet at any moment. Urine or vo
mit…with drunks one can never tell. “We have some money we need to invest, and as it turns out, we were left without anyone to handle that sort of thing. We need someone who can look out for us. Someone who has the church’s best interest in mind. Someone we can trust.”

  “Well—” I was about to tell him I’d taken another job when he cut me off. I didn’t have to.

  “I know things have been tough for your firm,” he said. He took a step forward, and placed his hand on my shoulder. Then he lowered his voice. “I know your family is having a bit of hardship.”

  I scooted from beneath his grip. “I don’t like to be touched.”

  He glanced at me sideways. “I like that you’re direct. And I get it,” he said. “What I don’t get,” he paused and shook his head. “Is why someone with your talent is in such dire straits.”

  I glanced through the window at Michael. “A series of bad business decisions on my part.”

  Mark Jones followed my gaze. “Ah. An honest man. A rare quality, it seems.”

  I didn’t say anything. Sometimes silence is good enough.

  “Are you a religious man, Mr. Anderson? Are you a praying man?”

  “No,” I answered. “I’m a man of science. But I have taken to my knees a bit lately.”

  “You don’t think beliefs play a part in making society work as a whole?”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “Do you think you could have a come-to-Jesus meeting, so to speak, with yourself?”

  “I have no interest in attending church Mr. Jones.”

  “Oh, but Tom,” he said. “We are so much more than that.”

  Chapter Nine

  Melanie

  I feel her eyes everywhere. “You look tired,” Beth remarks. “Are you feeling okay?”

  “Fine, thanks.” I motion for her to follow me toward the living room.

  “Gosh,” she says pausing in the foyer. “You’ve certainly been busy.”

  I watch as she takes the place in, accessing her features closely. I want to ask who is doing her work now that Dr. Dunn is six feet under. I want to ask who is doing her bidding now that his wife is out. But I assume that’s why she’s here, so I simply say, “A little.”

  “Well, the place looks great.” She is attractive for a woman her age. Whatever work she’s had done, it’s tasteful, not over the top, but not exactly unnoticeable either. “So…fresh,” she says, turning on her heel. “Tom must be thrilled.”

  Sarcasm, obviously. She knows as well as I do Tom abhors change. Slowly, very slowly, with the twist of an arm and a few shallow tactics on my part, he has allowed me to replace a few of his former wife’s things. Beth notices every one of them. Oh my, I love that new mirror. Is that a new vase? Tom let you replace the rug? Is this what I think it is?

  I offer her tea with milk and a buttered croissant. Tom says she likes these things.

  She declines both politely.

  “I cannot believe Tom hired a housekeeper,” Beth says, lowering her voice. She glances around as though our maid might pop out at any minute. “Tom hates the idea of staff. I know June tried for years, to no avail.”

  That name causes me to flinch. I shrug and play it off. “Really? He seems so happy now that we have Rose.” June must have been weak. Come to think of it, Tom never explained why he was so against help. Had I thought—or cared—to get to the bottom of this little problem, I might have saved myself a bit of purging.

  “Speaking of which, how are things working out?” I know she isn’t referring to the help who has made herself scarce for our company, as I asked her to do.

  I assume trying to manage my starter husband while I’m on my way to my next, probably isn’t the answer she wants to hear. People really dislike the truth when it's delivered unexpectedly

  Instead, I take a seat on the sofa and watch as she follows suit, taking the armchair adjacent to me. “So, things are going good then?” She tries again.

  “Pretty good, yes. It’s really nice to have help with the last minute shopping and the cleaning. Especially with so many visitors.” I offer a small laugh. “You just never know who is going to pop by.”

  “It’s impressive,” she tells me, one brow lifted. “What you’ve done with the place.” We both know she isn’t talking about the decor.

  Impressive is right, and I want to tell her it took faking morning sickness to get my husband to hire help. I want to tell her that desperate times call for desperate measures, and when the OCD excuses hadn’t seemed to do the trick, the matter called for escalation. More so, I want this to serve as a warning. I want her to know, although I have a feeling she might already, that sticking ones finger down their throat is worse than it sounds. I have no idea how bulimics manage. Real pregnant women are lucky, their purging comes easy.

  But I don’t say any of that. Obviously.

  I smile. “Croissant? Tea?” I offer again. One should never show their hand.

  “I’m flattered, really,” she tells me, eyeing the spread. “But gosh Melanie, this is just too much.”

  “It’s just Mel.” I correct her.

  Beth blinks rapidly. It’s clear she isn’t used to being corrected.

  “Only Tom calls me Melanie.”

  “What a shame,” she says, pouring tea into her cup. “It sounds so sophisticated.”

  “Sugar?” I ask, nodding at the cup. Her eyes follow mine. It’s June’s china she’s holding. She notices this too.

  “No. Thank you.”

  She eyeballs the tray.

  Pressing my lips together, suddenly I see my mistake: Just because Tom says she loves croissants does not mean she allows herself to have them. This makes me savor the moment all the more. I really take it in. Mistakes can work in ones favor that way, if you let them. Take the fake bun in my oven, if an example is what you’re looking for.

  I see her leaning in. She’s bound to fall. “This is all very nice,” she tells me, straightening her back. I can see it takes all her restraint to stop herself from reaching out. I bet if I left her alone… She clears her throat. “But you know I can’t have these carbs.”

  “That’s okay,” I say. “I’m eating for two.”

  “If only the weight came off as easily as it comes on.”

  I ignore her, and then I reach for a croissant. I place it beneath my nose and inhale deeply. Closing my eyes, I can relax into the aroma. “Mmmm.”

  I make sure to give it the full effect before tearing a fluffy piece off and placing it on my tongue. I chew extra slowly. When I’m finished, I nod toward the tray. “So good. I hope you won’t mind if I have yours.”

  Her mouth is open; she’s about to speak. At this point, I have no intention of sharing.

  I murmur something inaudible and then, “Pregnancy cravings…are very intense.”

  “I want to talk about the party,” she says, changing the subject.

  My face falls. Then I let a bit of silence settle between us. “I know,” I tell her. “It didn’t turn out the way I’d wanted either.”

  “The Men’s Alliance wasn’t happy with the final numbers.”

  “Oh, that reminds me—” I meet her eye. “I’ve been meaning to ask how I can join the Women’s Alliance?”

  Beth looks confused, although her face barely moves. Probably on account of all the filler. “There’s no such thing.”

  I rest my hand on my chest and inhale deeply. I pretend to let what she’s said sink in. “Oh. Well, I just assumed…”

  “Melanie, dear,” she says. She makes a clucking sound with her tongue to further convey her disappointment. Just in case I missed it. “Before you go any further, may I make a request?”

  She shifts, and I see the light flicker behind her eyes. She’s going to relent and ask for the damn croissant. “It’s Mel,” I say calmly. “Just Mel.”

  “Mel, right.” She crosses and uncrosses her legs. Her chin dips to her chest before finally she meets my eye. “I was really hoping to get off on a good foot.”

/>   I picture her getting off. It isn’t pleasant. My face twists. Beth takes this as a concession.

  “I realize you’re new. But we have standards to uphold.”

  “With the Women’s Alliance?”

  She doesn’t miss a beat. “There is no women’s alliance.”

  I shake my head. “Oh, that’s right. You said that.”

  Beth glances toward the clock. It’s weird how she knows everything in this house, maybe even better than me. “Tom mentioned you haven’t read the agreement.”

  “Yeah about that—” I pause and crack my knuckles.

  She waits patiently for me to go on, but I can see I’m wearing her down. She isn’t used to people taking this approach with her. “You know what they say about pregnancy brain.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t.”

  My bad. It’s been a long time since she’s been pregnant. “Funny, how all that goes away with enough time.”

  I see her jaw harden. Like the rest of her. Beth Jones isn’t a woman who likes to be reminded she’s aging.

  I toss my hands up before dropping them in my lap. Eventually, I shove them between my thighs. It’s a submissive posture. “With so much to do around here…it keeps slipping my mind.”

  Her eyes shift. She isn’t sure if I’m mocking her, or if I’m just stupid. Now that I have her properly confused, I bring it home. “Which reminds me…I was wondering…if you could…like…um… give me a refresher on the rules.”

  Finally, I get a smile. My question, combined with the way it is posed, has confirmed her suspicion. It’s the latter. It’s her mouth I watch as she works out what to say next. She has that trout pout thing going, and I’m not sure if it’s work or if she’s just really unhappy or if it’s only temporary, like maybe she’s into those lip kit things that they’re always advertising on the internet.

  “The rules,” she says. “Of course.” It’s clear what she thinks of me by the way she says it. Beth thinks I suffer from a low IQ. All beauty. No brains. What a terrible thing for her it would be if I were blessed with both. The threat of such a travesty out of the way, she adjusts her skirt and settles in.