The Real Mrs. Price

by J. D. Mason

  “I ran to the back of the house.”

  “Lucy?”

  “In the car parked on the back road. There’re snakes. Shit.”

  Plato waited.

  “I hear his car,” he whispered. “He’s starting up the car.”

  The phone went dead. A few minutes later, it vibrated again.

  “I think he went south. Going after him.”

  “He went the other way,” Lucy said in the background.

  “We’d have seen him if he had.” Plato could hear the agitation in Medlock’s voice. His boo was getting on his nerves.

  “I’m telling you, he went the other way,” she said emphatically.

  Silence.

  “You sure?”

  “Yes.”

  Tweedledee. Tweedledum? Plato sighed.

  He wondered if Marlowe still had dreams about him. Were they all dark? Frightening? She loved him. Plato was still wrestling with knowing that. She hadn’t come out and said it, but she’d come close. She’d wanted to say it. That old woman had implied it. He wondered how it was even possible that she could. He’d purposefully made himself unlovable, unobtainable. Marlowe was a silly, little, foolish romantic who desperately needed to believe in knights in fucking armor.

  Plato’s phone vibrated a third time. “He’s turning the corner,” Roman said before hanging up. “He’s on his way to you.” He’d needed Roman to follow Price to make sure that he didn’t stray from the script. Ed Price had played his part to perfection and did not disappoint.

  * * *

  Marlowe stirred from a restless sleep. Her heart was racing, her palms sweating. A sense of warning gnawed at her core. She sat up in bed, listening and waiting for something to reveal itself, but nothing did. Marlowe sighed and lay back down, closed her eyes, and tried to go back to sleep. Moments later, she sat up again and this time climbed out of bed and stepped out into the hallway. Shou Shou’s snoring could still be heard coming from her bedroom. That old woman was as psychic as they came. If there were anything or anyone inside this house that wasn’t supposed to be here, she’d have known it.

  A dramatic tug at her spirit compelled her to the flight of stairs at the end of the narrow corridor. Marlowe stopped at the top, bent slightly, and looked into the dark space of the living room below. She couldn’t see a damn thing, but that didn’t mean anything. Marlowe flicked the switch on the wall, but of course no lights came on. Shou did the best she could to keep lighting in her house, but since she was blind, she personally had no need for it. Marlowe took one cautious step down the flight of stairs and then another and another until she stood at the base of them.

  Someone was here. Fear gripped her and snaked up her spine. Marlowe froze at the sensation of being watched, and she shuddered. She slowly scanned every inch of darkness, peering intently and looking for any sign of movement, listening for any sign of who or what was in her aunt’s living room. Eddie was here. Suddenly, headlights from a car outside caught her attention, and Marlowe turned toward the window, but as she did, she spotted movement out of the corner of her eye and turned her head only to have it disappear again. Oh God! He was in this house.

  The sound of glass shattering made her snap her attention back to the front door. The small window by Shou’s front door had been broken. Marlowe watched in horror as a hand reached inside, found the lock, turned it to unlock the door, and slowly pushed it open.

  Confused, she shook her head in disbelief. Her mouth gaped open in shock, ready to scream, but the scream caught in her throat. In the darkness, she saw him, standing in the doorway, the outline of someone, of—

  “Marlowe.” He said her name.

  She couldn’t believe it. Eddie? It was … Eddie! But if he was outside, then who …

  Just as he was about to cross the threshold into Shou’s house, lights illuminated from outside, creating a dark silhouette of her husband and causing him to jerk around to look behind him.

  A massive shadow appeared to come out of a dark corner of Shou’s living room and swept cerily past Marlowe like a spirit.

  “Go back to sleep, Marlowe,” he whispered, his breath warm against her face.

  “No! No! Fuck, no!” Eddie yelled and backed up, as the ink-black shadow of Plato seemed to stretch out that long body of his and cover the distance of that room without taking a single step. His body seemed to blanket Eddie entirely and make him disappear out of that doorway.

  “Plato?” she murmured, shocked, tentatively approaching the open doorway in time to see Plato draw back a massive fist and plant it hard into Eddie’s face and then step over the motionless body and drag it down the steps.

  Lucy jumped out of another car parked across the street.

  “Lucy! Lucy, wait!” Roman Medlock called after her.

  And then Lucy stopped. Plato stopped and looked at her.

  “Lucy?” Eddie said groggily. “Lucy. Baby?” Eddie began to sob. “Don’t … don’t let him.” He struggled to break loose from Plato’s grasp and reached for her. “Please. Don’t— Help me! Please!”

  Eddie cried like a baby until the moment when Plato leaned down and hit him again. After that, he didn’t move.

  Plato never looked up at Marlowe standing in the doorway watching this whole scene unfold like something she’d see in a horror movie. Lucy saw her. She paused. Took a step toward the house.

  “Lucy,” Roman said, coming up behind her and gently taking hold of her arm. “We need to get out of here.”

  Moments later, Marlowe backed into the house and slowly closed the door. And just like that, it was over.

  * * *

  Men’s necks don’t snap like twigs the way they do in the movies. Flesh, muscle, tendons, and ligaments surround bone, creating a component of the body that is certainly not as fragile as Hollywood portrays. To break a neck requires not only strength but knowledge of anatomy, technique, and a kind of raw courage and determination that can only come from a very primal place in the soul. That place buried so deep inside a man that decent men turn away from it, ignore it, and shudder at the very thought of facing it. Unfortunately for Ed Price, Plato was not one of those men.

  Plato could’ve just walked away and left Price to wither and die on his own. Years from now, maybe he would come to regret this moment, when the pulling of flesh from bone, the snapping of vertebrae reverberating up his arms, would shake him awake at night and cause him to sit up in bed, dripping in a cold sweat and quaking in disgust and shame over what he’d had the audacity to do to another human being. But there were plenty of those kinds of memories stored up in Plato’s head. And he’d deal with them all eventually.

  Ed Price screamed, kicked, and fought until he couldn’t, while Plato slowly, deliberately, and patiently stood fast.

  In Another You

  THE DISCOVERY OF ED’S BODY in a Clark City ravine made national news.

  “A body discovered off Highway 17 early this morning by a truck driver near marker 282 in Clark City has been identified as that of missing businessman Edward Price. It was first believed that Price had been killed more than a month ago and found incinerated in his vehicle near the town of Nelson, Texas. Marlowe Price, Edward Price’s second wife, a woman he married while still married to his first wife, Lucille Price, was the prime suspect in that murder. Police are now speculating that Edward Price is responsible for the death of the unidentified corpse found in that vehicle. Evidence is still being collected here at the scene, but this investigation and the investigation into the murder of the unidentified man once believed to be Price is shifting quickly in a different direction.”

  Lucy had refused to fly home after learning that Roman was going to help Wells find Ed.

  “If he’s alive, then I have to see it for myself, Roman,” she’d told him. “I have to see this thing through to the end.”

  Wells had asked Roman to sit and wait near that motel in Nelson and to call him when he spotted Ed. She and Roman followed him first to Marlowe’s and then to Marlowe’s
aunt’s house. Seeing him again after so much time had passed was like seeing a ghost. But deep down, she’d never believed that he was dead. When Wells had him in his grasp, she knew that she’d never see her husband alive again. It was a frightening thought. Wells was indeed a killer, and Ed’s life was in that man’s hands that night. As he was being dragged away, Ed pleaded with her to help him. He begged her, but Lucy didn’t budge. Even if she could’ve saved him, she wouldn’t have. Ed Price was also a murderer. He’d killed Chuck, and he’d likely killed Tom Hilliard. Lucy wouldn’t have been the least bit surprised if, later on, authorities determined that the man in that car was Hilliard.

  The press still followed Marlowe around, bombarding her with questions about the discovery of Ed’s body and asking if she felt that this discovery exonerated her. Marlowe had learned to handle the press like a pro, though. She kept her head down, moved quickly through the sea of reporters, and never uttered one word. Lucy admired her courage, her resolve. She admired the size of her boobs, too, and definitely made it a point to set up an appointment for a consultation and a quote.

  * * *

  “What are you doing up so early?” Roman asked groggily, coming from upstairs.

  Lucy sat on the sofa with her legs underneath her and her hands cupped around a hot mug of tea. “What are you doing up so early?” she turned the question back to him. “I came down here so that I wouldn’t wake you.”

  He leaned over her, kissed her, and then sat down beside her. “The bed got cold. That’s what woke me up.”

  They’d been home for three days. Roman had intended on just dropping her off and leaving, but he’d never made it to the “leaving” part. She liked having him here. He was comforting and comfortable, and he had seen her at her worst. The temptation of that money had turned Lucy into a creature she’d have never believed could come out of her, but it reared its ugly head, and he still found her attractive.

  “I should probably get home today,” he said hesitantly. “I need a new gig.”

  Even after three days of Roman, she didn’t like the idea of him not being here. He’d worked so hard to shine a light on his demons and to turn her off, and for a minute, it had worked. He was a drug addict, and drug addicts were unpredictable and volatile and always in danger of falling off the wagon. But he was dreamy handsome, too. He’d made mistakes that he’d likely pay for throughout the rest of his life, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t be happy on some level. He liked being with her, making love to her. Lucy loved his patience and his consideration. Roman was passionate but worked hard to hide it. Lucy wondered what it would be like if he didn’t.

  “You want breakfast before you leave?” she asked.

  He looked up at her and smiled. “Breakfast would be nice. And then maybe later, I can take you out to dinner.”

  “Dinner would be nice.”

  “Has Marlowe made any statements?” he asked, watching the news with her.

  She shook her head. “No. I doubt she will. I wouldn’t.”

  Lucy was suddenly startled by her phone ringing. She looked at him. “Who could that be at this time of the morning?”

  She answered it. “Hello? Yes. This is Lucy Price.”

  And just like that, she hung up the phone.

  “Reporter?” he asked.

  She stared wide-eyed back at him and nodded. “Since Marlowe’s not giving them anything to report about anymore, and she’s not spilling any beans on Ed, I guess I’m their new pinup girl.”

  One Month Later …

  Let Me Give You My Life

  QUENTIN STOPPED BY MARLOWE’S HOUSE a few days after they’d found Ed’s body.

  “We found a credit card and driver’s license on him belonging to Thomas Hilliard, who’s been missing for months,” he explained, standing there with his hands shoved into his pockets. “That’s probably who was in that car.”

  If he expected her to jump up and down for joy, he was going to have to settle on being disappointed.

  “Of course, we’ll be dropping the charges against you,” he said apologetically. Quentin stared at her and then asked another question. “Whatever happened to your friend Mr. Wells?” he broached cautiously.

  “I have no idea,” she reluctantly said.

  “I find it a bit odd that he should disappear right around the time that Price’s body shows up.”

  He waited for Marlowe to respond. She didn’t.

  * * *

  Shou Shou had let Plato into the house that night. The next morning, she’d admitted it.

  “I bound him before he came in,” she’d explained. “Bound him good and tight so that he couldn’t do nothing in here.” Shou Shou smiled proudly. “What he did on the other side of my door was none of my business.”

  “Why’d you do it, Shou? Why’d you let him in?”

  “Look what woulda happened if I hadn’t,” she’d said. “That husband would’ve come up in here, and who knows what he woulda done. He told me that Eddie was on his way. He told me he needed to come inside and wait for him.” She’d shrugged. “So I let him. And then I went to bed. Slept good, too.”

  * * *

  The early sun was the best sun. Marlowe had gotten out into her garden before the heat of the day set in, pulling weeds and watering. Abby had come in with some of the guys she worked with and painted Marlowe’s house for next to nothing, and Marlowe thought she’d have to petition to have her marriage to Ed annulled but Lucy’s brother, Lawrence, told her that since the marriage was never legal, she didn’t need to waste her time. Was she truly at peace? No. And she probably wouldn’t be for a long time. But she wasn’t under siege anymore. Reporters stopped coming around, and Marlowe was back to living her life again, or at least trying to.

  It was a hollow shell of what it once was. Before Eddie, before Plato and Lucy, Marlowe was a part of this community. She had become comfortable in her role here in Blink, but now, even though she’d been cleared of killing Eddie, it still felt like a line had been drawn, and there was her on one side and everybody else on the other.

  “Marlowe.”

  She’d never expected to see him again, at least not in this life. Plato stared at her from across the yard, wearing a white T-shirt and jeans, his dark skin glistening like magic in the sun. As beautiful as he was to look at, Marlowe felt nothing for him inside, which surprised her. He’d evoked such extreme emotion from her when she first saw him, but to see him now and feel nothing caught her off guard.

  He had killed Eddie. She hadn’t seen him do it, but she knew. That’s the kind of man O. P. Wells was and had been from the very beginning. It’s the reason she’d seen him as that black, frightening figure in her dreams and the reason the bones showed him to her as the devil. He was as bad as the devil, as evil, and so very capable of devilish things.

  “I thought your business here was finished,” she said unemotionally, but guarded.

  “I thought so too, but here you are,” he said in that lighthearted way of his. “I tried to stay away.” His expression turned serious all of a sudden. “I couldn’t.”

  Marlowe didn’t know what to make of this moment, of him, of her reaction or the lack thereof. All that good-looking on him was still there. The charm was as evident as ever, but it was passion—her passion for him, her fear, neither of those things were there anymore. It was as if she was through with him now that he’d done what he’d come here to do.

  “You should’ve stayed away,” she told him, and without apology, too. “Our business is done.”

  He stood there at first, probably unaccustomed to having a woman turn him away. Men like him didn’t know rejection. Even with her and all the ways she’d tried to avoid him, he’d always had an air about him that reeked of cockiness. He’d always known that it was only a matter of time before she caved and gave in to him.

  He slowly approached her, and that’s when the air between them started to press against her and threaten to awaken something inside her. She stepped back.


  He stopped and smiled, and she saw it in his eyes, that confidence, that assuredness that he could slither back into her life. “I’ve missed you.”

  Plato was a heartbreaker. A player. Too damn charming and handsome and tempting. Marlowe had to be strong, though.

  “I haven’t missed you.”

  It felt good to say it. Marlowe felt empowered for the first time, leading with her head and not her heart. She’d made too many mistakes and errors in judgment based on how she felt, and it was long past time to change up and be more careful with herself than she had been in the past. Not everyone deserved her, and she’d wasted the best parts of herself on undeserving men.

  He came toward her again. “If I thought you meant that, I never would’ve come back.”

  “I do mean it.” She did. She wanted to. Needed to.

  He turned his head slightly to one side and stared intensely at her, then smiled. “Nah, you don’t.” His dark eyes twinkled.

  Marlowe was starting to feel unsettled.

  “Quentin thinks you killed Eddie,” she told him.

  Knowing that, she figured that it would be enough to make him reconsider even being back here in Blink.

  “I don’t give a damn what Quentin thinks,” he said, coming closer.

  Marlowe dropped the hose, went over to the house to turn off the water, and escaped to the sanctity of her back deck, which put her almost at eye level with him.

  “I came here for you.”

  “You came here for exactly what you got,” she challenged him. “So now you need to go.”

  “I did go, and I couldn’t stop thinking about you. I couldn’t cut you loose, and that bothered me.”

  “That’s not my problem,” she said defensively, willing him to keep his distance.

  “No, it’s mine. Which is why I’m here.”

  Marlowe shook her head in disbelief and then chuckled. “Because you love me?” she asked sarcastically. “You decided all of a sudden that you can’t live without me? I don’t think either one of us believes that.”

  Plato walked to the edge of her deck, stopped in front of her, and stared into her eyes. “Because the least of what I feel for you is love.”