Crazy In Love: A Standalone Christmas Thriller

by Ivy Smoak

  Something like that. "No, he always comes straight home. And I've tried to call him a hundred times." I pretended to sob, but it sounded more like a hog squealing. Oops. I'd have to practice my fake crying tonight.

  But the dispatcher's voice softened like she believed I was terribly upset. "I can get an officer out to speak with you right away."

  Wait, what? "Right now?" I glanced at the hand cart I'd used to pull his body out of the car and through the house. And then my eyes landed on the deadbolt on the basement door.

  "Yes, ma'am. Someone will be out in fifteen minutes or less."

  Shit. All the crime shows said they’d wait at least 24 hours. A cop couldn't show up right now. I was supposed to go to the police station tomorrow night. I had it all planned out to the minute. They were never supposed to come here. Ever. "Are you sure that's necessary?" I asked.

  "Of course. If you truly believe he's missing?"

  "Mhm." My voice was oddly high pitched. "Would it be easier if I came down to the precinct?"

  "Not at all necessary. An officer is already en route."

  Holy hell. I stood up and ran over to the hand cart. I needed to get it back in my garage. There was also duct tape and rope on my kitchen island. My stomach churned. I'm going to end up in prison. "Thank you," I said.

  "We'll find him," she said very calmly.

  Probably because she heard the panic in my voice. But I wasn't panicking over my husband. I couldn’t care less about him. He wasn’t going anywhere. I was panicking because I thought I'd have all morning to practice my distraught face. I looked happy and cozy in my pajamas...not at all like a scared-to-death housewife. How had I already messed up my plan only an hour and a half in?

  "Stay strong," the dispatcher said.

  "You too." You too? God, I was going to ruin everything. I hung up before I could say anything else stupid...like a confession.

  After putting the handcart back in the garage and shoving the duct tape and rope under the kitchen sink, I double-checked the deadbolt on the basement door. Locked. Everything was secure. I could do this. I looked down at my pajamas. All I needed to do was change.

  As soon as I entered my bedroom, I saw my reflection in the floor-length mirror. I was still wearing my blonde wig. If anyone at the bar remembered us from tonight, they'd identify me completely wrong. A blonde and her drunk beau from the team-building conference. The cops would be spinning in circles for weeks. But not if they showed up and I was still wearing it like a kidnapping novice. The pros made all of this look so easy.

  I pulled off my blonde wig and threw it into the closet. Maybe the pajamas worked. I looked innocent and scared. Innocent was good. I pulled my hair into a messy bun, leaving a few strands out to make me look more frantic. Look scared. I made a face in the mirror that could only be described as joyful. Because that was how I'd been feeling up until several minutes ago. Joyful. But my plan was falling apart right in front of my eyes. Damn it, I was totally screwed.

  The doorbell rang.

  I cracked my neck and rolled my shoulders as I made one last attempt at a scared face. My eyes grew big and round. My bottom lip trembled. Perfect. I could do this.

  I ran down the stairs, my phone in my hand like I'd just been calling all of my husband's friends instead of working on my facial expressions. But as my hand reached out to open the door, I realized I wouldn't have to really act. My joy had quickly been replaced with these anxious nerves butterflying around in my stomach. I just wasn't worried about my husband's whereabouts. I was worried about the police unlocking my basement door. I was worried about being caught red-handed.

  The doorbell rang again and I opened it, shoving my worries aside.

  Because standing there was none other than Detective Damien Torres. The nervous butterflies in my stomach were replaced by fan-girl butterflies. Everyone knew everyone around here. But I wasn't excited because I'd seen him around town a few times. I was excited because Detective Torres had worked a local case I'd been following closely on the news. A case that had helped give me confidence that I could get away with the perfect crime. It was also a case that proved Detective Torres was terrible at his job. I couldn't believe my luck. Tonight couldn't be going any better! I tried to hide my smile.

  "Hello, Miss. I'm Detective..."

  "Torres," I said, cutting him off. He was just as handsome as he was on TV. "I know who you are. I mean, I've seen you on the news. You were working on the Violet Clark case. You were partners with Detective Tucker Reed. Is it true that he ran away with her? That they fled the country together before all those bodies were pulled out of the lake? Did she really murder all those people?" I looked behind Detective Torres like his partner would be plastered to his side. But he was all alone.

  Detective Torres lowered his eyebrows as he watched me.

  I swallowed down the rest of what I knew about him. I wasn't supposed to be excited to see him. And my excitement was getting the better of me - making me look like a crime show junkie instead of a worried housewife. A sympathetic wife with a missing husband who I loved dearly. "Never mind, it's not important," I said. "All that matters is that you're here to help me find my husband. It's all I can think about." But God, I wished that I was meeting Detective Torres under different circumstances where I could ask him every detail about his last case. Violet Clark was kind of an idol of mine. After all...she'd successfully gotten away with murder.

  He nodded. "I need to know everything about the last time you saw your husband. Who you've reached out to. How long he's been missing." He pulled out a notebook. "Can I come in?"

  Part of me had been hoping I could just tell him everything on the front porch. I looked past him at the cookie-cutter houses on the lane I lived on. I wasn't sure which was worse - a detective on my front porch, igniting gossip around the whole neighborhood, or a detective inside my house.

  In my house. Definitely in my house. I was a kidnapper! "Actually, could we go for a walk? I feel like I need some fresh air or I'm going to lose my mind." Don’t talk about losing your mind in front of a detective! I cleared my throat as I grabbed my jacket. "I mean, I just need some air to clear my head. I've been cooped up all night fretting."

  "Yeah, that's fine," Detective Torres said as I shut the door, not leaving him much of a choice.

  Classic Detective Torres. I was already outmaneuvering him. As we walked down my driveway, I was vaguely aware of him staring down at my pink slippers. And even more aware of the fact that I was wearing my comfy pajamas in front of a local celebrity. I shoved my hands into my coat pockets and turned onto the street.

  Maybe I imagined it, but I swear I saw neighbors peeking out their blinds at the two of us walking down the street. Normally it was easy to see inside their windows at night, but all their houses were aglow with Christmas lights, casting weird shadows on the glass. But I could feel them staring. Judging. I tried to focus on the person standing next to me. I couldn't avoid the gossip now. I was already two feet in. Two slippered feet in. "So what were your questions?" I asked.

  "How long has your husband been missing?"

  "The last time I saw him was this morning before work. Everything seemed normal. He wasn't acting strange at all. It was just a normal workday. But when he didn't come home tonight, I started calling friends and family. Apparently he never showed up to work today." The lies came so naturally. I was basically already a pro.

  Detective Torres jotted something down in his notebook. "Is there anyone you haven't reached out to yet?"

  "I've talked to everyone I could think of. I've been going crazy all night." Again with the lunatic talk. If I kept saying things like that he'd lock me up before our walk was over. "Crazy with worry, I mean. I'm not crazy. You can ask anyone." Stop talking right now.

  I swore I saw a flash of a smile on his lips.

  "What time does your husband usually come home from work?" he asked.

  I pushed my hands into my pajama pockets, brushing my fingers against the taser. How
likely was it that Detective Torres would pat me down? I tried to run through the odds as I answered his question. "5:30ish." Maybe a 10 percent chance of a pat down? He had no reason to suspect me of any wrongdoing at this point.

  "I noticed that you're not wearing a wedding or engagement ring. Is that why you're hiding your hands?"

  "What?" I pulled my left hand out. Shit balls! I forgot to put them back on after my role-playing. Now he had a reason to suspect me. "My diamond is expensive," I said. "I never sleep in it. I took it off when I changed into my pajamas." What the heck was going on? Detective Torres was supposed to be a terrible detective. How had he noticed that I wasn't wearing my rings? My stomach churned. Maybe he was a better detective than I was giving him credit for. Just because he made one mistake...

  "And you were getting ready for bed instead of looking for your husband?"

  I'm going to jail. "I've been looking all night. And I'm exhausted. Mentally and physically. I doubt I'll be able to sleep...but what else can I do tonight?"

  He stopped walking. In the middle of the street. Like a dumb pedestrian instead of a detective. "Ensley, do you know where your husband is?"

  In my house. "No." I kept my voice even. And I found myself gripping the taser in my pocket. I could still get away. I could tase Detective Torres, run back to my house, and drive away into the night. I could forget about my past. I could forget about vengeance.

  "You didn't want me to come into your house. You're not wearing your rings. Right now all signs point to you."

  "What?" Oh, God. How the hell did he put that together so fast? I was seconds away from confessing everything. How long would I go to prison for a simple kidnapping anyway? Maybe I'd just get a slap on the wrist because I'd never broken the law before. And if Detective Torres reacted poorly to my confession, I'd just tase him and run away. Easy-peasy. I gripped the taser tighter in my hand and was about to open my mouth when Detective Torres smiled.

  "Sorry. I had to ask," he said. "You clearly know all about me. So you know that I already let one guilty woman get away. I don't plan on making the same mistake twice."

  "Of course." I breathed a sigh of relief. He was just being cautious. I let go of the taser in my hand and gave the speech I had planned for tomorrow: "Detective Torres, I have no idea who would possibly want to hurt my husband. All I know is that I love him. I love him so much and I'm so scared." I did the sniffle thing that I'd mastered and my eyes even grew a little watery from the cold.

  "We'll find him. I promise."

  As excited as I was to meet Detective Torres, I didn't believe his promise. He'd been plastered all over the news the last few weeks, but it wasn't exactly a glowing portrayal. His suspect had gotten away. His partner had helped her escape. A promise from Detective Torres wasn't worth much. Which was good news for me. I couldn't have asked for a better detective on the case. My case. Now I just needed to decide if I really did want to get away with murder.

  Chapter 3

  Friday

  I slid the deadbolt and the basement door creaked open. Before today, I'd only been in the basement ten minutes tops. I hated basements. They were underground and creepy for a reason - to store things that should never see the light of day. Which was why it was the perfect hiding spot.

  When my husband and I first moved in, we didn't even need to store anything down here because we had so much closet space. But as the years ticked by, there was some overflow that had wound up in boxes down here. Christmas decorations, old clothes, and memories I no longer needed.

  I tiptoed down the steps. But it wasn't necessary. He was still fast asleep. If he wasn't gagged and tied to the wooden chair, I would have said he looked peaceful. I pulled the cord above his head, illuminating his slumped body even more, then placed the icepack I'd brought down on one of his thighs. If I'd had more I would have put them all over him. I hadn't meant for him to fall down the basement stairs. Truly. But his shoulders had slipped out of my hands and gravity had done the rest. At least he'd been unconscious. He'd have a few bruises, but it didn't seem like anything was broken. I'd taken a peek under his shirt to make sure.

  Although I had been a little distracted by his six-pack earlier. Maybe I needed another look... I reached out. Stop. I folded my arms across my chest to prevent them from wandering. I was a kidnapper. Not a pervert. The only reason I was even attempting to look at his perfect abs was because it had been a while since my husband had been intimate with me. I bit the inside of my lip as I stared at him. Asshole. It was tempting to kick his shin. To slap him awake. To take away his ice pack. He deserved those bruises. Hell, he deserved to be thrown down the stairs on purpose instead of an innocent, accidental tumble.

  As I stared at him, I started to wonder if it had been an accident. Had my fingers slipped, or had I wanted him to fall? I reached out again, this time touching his face. He'd said I was beautiful. Something I hadn't heard in years. But he was the beautiful one. Chiseled jaw line. That perfect 5 o'clock shadow. Slightly shaggy hair that fell effortlessly on his forehead. These tiny little crinkles around the corners of his eyes caused by laughter.

  I let my fingers fall from his face and touched the corners of my eyes. I had the same small lines. I'd started to notice them last year before I turned the big 3-0. I was beautiful once. But not now. I looked down at my pajamas and slippers. I looked like a hermit. The kind of hermit that never wore lace.

  But I wanted him to think I was beautiful. I wanted to remember how he'd looked at me before all this. Because he'd wake up soon and there would be no going back. Maybe I'd reconsider burning all my lingerie. How fun would it be to torture him while looking amazingly chic? I smiled. Much more fun.

  I continued to stare at him, his light breathing calming me. I knew I needed rest, but it was like I couldn't look away. He was tied up in my basement. I did it. I was as good as all the perpetrators in crime shows. Better even.

  I'd already crossed four things off my list. First was the one I'd thought about the most - the kidnapping itself. Then I successfully hid him. Then I called 911. And thanks to the fact that TV shows spewed lies, I was ahead of schedule because I'd already talked to the police. I was killing it. A laugh fell from my lips. Killing it. I was hilarious.

  Not only was I hilarious and great at this, but I also got the best detective on my case. And by the best, I actually mean the worst. Best for me, worst at his job. I'd have all my answers by tomorrow night, just as planned. I'd be long gone before anyone put the pieces together. And I'd be the best criminal in this town. Maybe I'd even wind up on the news by Christmas.

  My husband was going to regret everything he ever did to me. I leaned down. "Poor sweet, Noah," I said out loud. "Of all the cities. Of all the bars. You just had to walk into mine." I was wrong before. Role-playing was so much fun.

  I moved the ice pack to his other thigh. There. He was practically all fixed up. If he needed anything else, it would have to wait until he was conscious. I looked around at all the spider webs in the basement. And I shivered from the draft. I sighed. He was such a diva even when he was silent. Fine. I opened one of the boxes on the ground and pulled out a light blue blanket. A blanket that was never used. I ran my hand along the soft fabric and looked back down at the box. Everything in that box was the start of all our problems. I placed the small blanket around his shoulders before kicking the box to the side. A baby rattle that was never touched jingled against the rest of the contents and I tried not to cringe.

  The blanket looked ridiculous on top of his broad, leather-jacket-clad shoulders. I frowned. Well, not that ridiculous. He somehow pulled it off. I stopped myself from removing his super uncomfortable looking jeans. There were lines and I needed to be careful to stop crossing them.

  I stepped away from him. Now I could sleep peacefully knowing that his bruises had been taken care of and he was warm enough. I wasn't a monster. I pulled on the cord above his head and retreated up the stairs. Deadbolt back in place. Check. Front and back doors locked to
o. Check. I locked my bedroom door behind me and stared at the empty bed.

  And then I stared at the ceiling while I tried to fall asleep.

  And stared.

  And stared.

  I'd kidnapped him. I'd thrown him down the stairs and tied him up in my basement. And I'd molested his abs. I reached over and pinched myself to make sure this was real. Ow.

  I was officially a criminal. There was no going back.

  I wasn't sure if it was that thought that kept me awake. Or the possibility of him escaping.

  Or maybe it wasn't either of those things. I flipped the light on my bedside table back on. When I was little I had been terrified of the dark. I slept with a nightlight until I was a teenager. I continued to stare at the ceiling that was fully lit now. Maybe I was still a little afraid that the darkness would swallow me whole.

  Chapter 4

  Saturday

  Every inch of my body was sore, like I'd just run a marathon. Not that I'd know. Just the idea of running that many miles made me want to fake an injury to get out of it. I groaned and reached out my arm, expecting to feel my husband stretched out beside me. But my fingers came up empty. Silky sheets and no husband.

  I yawned and slowly opened my eyes. His side of the bed was still perfectly made. Had he not come home last night? I sat up and looked around the room. His clothes weren't tossed carelessly on the floor, waiting for me to pick them up. And the shoes he refused to take off at the door like the asshole he was weren't anywhere in sight. I couldn't even smell his cologne that made me want to gag.

  I touched my forehead, the action making the muscles in my arms sing. What the hell happened last night?

  And then I heard a noise. It almost sounded like...screaming?

  Oh. No. I threw the comforter off me as I scrambled out of bed. A part of me had hoped it had all been a dream. A bad, horrifying, wonderfully exciting dream. I felt my lips curl into a smile. I'd actually done it? Oh my God, I'd actually done it!