How To Kill Your Husband (In 12 Easy Steps!) (Patreon)

Hello, and welcome to the first chapter of my Patreon novel: How To Kill Your Husband!After fatally stabbing her husband, Gabrielle must figure out why he keeps coming back to life while avoiding the beautiful, mysterious woman who lives next door.Please leave feedback in the comments! We live for it during the writing process, which is often lonely and isolating.

step one: stab him!

Jack’s wine glass teeters on the counter’s edge, threatening to fall and feed the crimson lake on the kitchen tile. Jack. My husband. He lies there, lifeless, staring vacantly at the popcorn ceiling. The butcher knife is still embedded in his neck, buried all the way to the handle.

Silence folds around me, thick as cotton, so stifling I can scarcely breathe. I stare at Jack’s limp form, waiting for a twitch of his fingers, a rise and fall of his chest–anything. But there’s nothing. 

Jack’s dead. Gone. And I killed him.

My heartbeat speeds up, pounding loud enough to fill my ears, but a sliver of reason cuts through the panic. Blood. I can’t stand here frozen. Not with this much blood.

I dump Jack’s glass in the sink, watching the dark red wine swirl down the stainless steel drain. Fuck him, and fuck his drinking. Next, I kick off my heels. I can’t risk tracking blood through the house. Then, I search for Yeti, clicking my tongue to coax him out of hiding. The thought of him balled up somewhere, alone and in pain, makes my eyes burn. I sniff, swiping them with my sleeve. Can’t cry now. My cat needs me.

I find him under the couch, his blue eyes wide and round as marbles. I scoop him up, burying my face in the soft white cloud of his fur. He smells like sugar cookies fresh from the oven, a warm, familiar scent that slows my hummingbird heartbeat for a moment.

Gently, I stroke Yeti’s thin body, searching for injuries. He flinches when I touch his ribs, but even so, he purrs in my arms, a ragged wheeze of a sound woven through with a high thrum of fear. It isn’t his usual low rumble, and that breaks me, somehow. I’m his protector, his guardian, and I’ve failed.

The vet. I need to take him. But Jack…

I rush back into the kitchen, grab the mop from the laundry room and the cleaning caddy under the kitchen sink, and scrub the floor like my life depends on it. My life probably does depend on it. If anyone finds out, I’ll go to prison, and Florida has the death penalty for murderers.

Murderer. I’m a murderer. I murdered my husband. Ex-husband? Late husband? Does he get the title of ‘ex’ if our marriage ended in his murder?

When we promised ‘til death do us part, I’d never imagined it could end like this. I’d pictured us growing old and gray together, blissfully happy and in love. I remember our wedding day; the smell of roses and the taste of lemon frosting on my tongue as Jack and I share our first dance, his white smile radiant, his hands warm and sure on my waist.

The mop feels heavy, shaking in my sweaty grip. I’m only spreading the mess around, leaving streaks of blood everywhere. It’s wrong. All wrong.

I drop the mop and collapse beside Jack, burying my face in his bloodstained shirt. He smells like his sharp, woodsy cologne, but there’s no comforting rise and fall of his chest, no reassuring thump of his heart. He’s really, truly dead. The life I once knew, the happily ever I always dreamed of, has been reduced to this: the body of my husband in the kitchen he remodeled for me just over a year ago.

Tears stream down my cheeks, but my chest is too tight to sob. I can only weep into Jack’s chest, hardly caring about the blood, snot, and tears smeared on my face. I should call the police and turn myself in. Maybe I deserve the death penalty. Who gave me the right to take someone else’s life, especially my husband’s?

But what about Yeti? Who will care for him? My family? Not a chance. The royal court loves to guilt trip me about their allergies every time they deign to visit our humble home in America, which is practically never, even though I’m expected to fly to France at the snap of their fingers. Shelters? No way. They’re a death sentence for a deaf senior cat with diabetes.

“Fuck you, Jack,” I scream, beating my fists against his chest. “Fuck! You!” Fuck him for drinking. Fuck him for every raised fist, hole in the drywall, and venomous word. And fuck him extra for hurting the only creature who’s ever truly loved me without asking for anything in return.

That’s it, then. My only choice. I can’t call the police. I have to clean up and hide the evidence, for Yeti’s sake.

Set in my course, I clamber to my feet and resume cleaning the kitchen, paying more attention to detail. I soak up most of the blood with my shabbiest towels, then bag them. I’ll have to find a dumpster far from home, but that problem is much further down my list. A more pressing problem is how to move Jack. He’s lean but muscular, and he’s got six inches on me.

I have no choice but to drag him, foot by painstaking foot, across the kitchen, through the laundry room, and into the garage, leaving a trail of blood behind. As soon as I enter the garage, the sweltering summer heat hits me in the face. A sticky layer of sweat sprouts along my hairline and trickles down my spine. My clothes cling to me as I haul Jack over to the dirt-caked red wheelbarrow I use for gardening. It takes all my strength, but somehow, I manage to shove him in.

Maybe I can bury him in the backyard tonight and plant those rose bushes I’ve been thinking about? The ones Jack said were a waste of time and money. I doubt I can move him much further than the backyard without getting caught. But people are bound to ask questions.

I should write a note. Maybe a goodbye text from his phone. Anyone looking for him might feel sorry for me when they hear he’s run off with some pretty young thing. And what better way for a florist to forget about her absconded husband than some gardening?

Having a plan, even a bad one, loosens the knot in my stomach. Shaking with adrenaline and exertion, I stagger back into the house. Inside, I unload the cleaning caddy and scrub the kitchen spotless. As I wash the blood away, I’m almost grateful that Jack demands…demanded…a house with floors clean enough to eat off of. After ten years of marriage, I’ve had plenty of practice.

By the time I collapse, exhausted, onto the floor, my lungs are clogged with the caustic burn of bleach. I stare down at my hands, cracked and raw from scouring away every single speck of blood. The kitchen looks clean, but I can’t help doubting myself. I’ve seen enough crime shows to know that blood traces are almost impossible to remove. I can only hope the police won’t suspect murder right away. Runaway husbands are far more common, aren’t they?

I catch myself picking at the blood in the beds of my fingernails. I should trash my clothes and shower, or I’ll make the kitchen a mess again. Blotting the tears and blood from my face with what must be my thousandth paper towel, I bag everything that even touched anything that touched Jack.

With one last glance around the kitchen, I limp into the shower to wash away the evidence of my sins. As I stand beneath the ice-cold spray, watching lazy eddies of blood swirl down the drain, I realize all my efforts over the years were ultimately useless. I tried so hard, so fucking hard, to fix my relationship with Jack. Fix our marriage. Begin our happily ever after.

None of it matters now. Not anymore.

Fresh tears burn in my eyes, rolling down my cheeks with the shower spray and dripping from my chin. Jack is dead, gone, forever. I’ll never hear his laugh, kiss the dimple of his chin, or comb my fingers through his wavy brown hair again. He’ll never kiss my forehead and tell me he loves me. God, I’ve ruined everything, just like Jack always says.

***

Once I’m clean and dressed, I bundle Yeti into his carrier. For once, he doesn’t protest. There’s no yowling or pawing, only limp resignation. I should take his compliance as a small blessing, but it’s completely unlike him. Yeti hates the carrier. Maybe he’s hurt worse than I thought.

The possibility sits like a cold stone in my stomach as I carry him into the garage. I put his carrier in the passenger seat as gently as possible, then throw a tarp over the wheelbarrow. Over Jack. I can’t risk anyone glimpsing his body when I open the garage door.

It’s pouring as I pull into the driveway, a true Floridian summer storm. Thunder growls nearby and a wall of rain pelts the windshield until everything is a washed-out blur. This will be a shit drive, but at least none of the neighbors are out to peek in my garage. Another small blessing. Maybe God really is forgiving and wants me to get away with this after all.

I crawl through my flooded neighborhood mostly by memory, wipers on full blast. A fork of lightning splits the sky, followed by another rolling boom of thunder. Yeti rustles in his carrier, burrowing under the towel. Poor thing. He hates storms as much as Jack does.

Did.

Thinking of Jack in the past tense could take a while, but maybe I shouldn’t. Everyone else needs to assume he’s alive, so I should speak as though he is. I should trick myself into believing he’s still out there somewhere, hating storms far away from me.

The ten-minute drive to the vet takes twenty. When I pull into the lake that was once the Shadyside Veterinary Clinic parking lot, the storm has reached a crescendo. I grab Yeti’s carrier and dash for shelter, rain running down my face, soaked clothes clinging to my skin. Yeti finds his voice, howling the whole way.

I fling the door open and stagger inside, almost tripping over a tiny black chihuahua. It yelps, scurrying back toward its owner — a young Black woman with colorful blue braids twisted in a bun atop her head.

“Brutus, no!” She bends over, the loose half of her braids swishing about her shoulders as she scoops up the cowering chihuahua. “Sorry,” she says, shooting me a dimpled smile that warms the room like sunshine. “He’s an idiot. You probably just spooked him.”

My mouth opens and closes, but only a startled croak comes out. She’s just so pretty and I wasn’t expecting it. Her skin glows like the rich brown shade of an oak tree hit just right by the late afternoon sun, and her big brown eyes are the color of whiskey.

Whiskey. 

Jack.

The stupid argument.

We were out of whiskey, so I’d poured a glass of wine, the only alcohol we had in the house. That hadn’t been good enough. Then, while Jack cursed me out, Yeti rubbed against my leg and distracted me…

I swallow, my face burning under the heat of her expectant stare. Something about the woman’s wide, searching brown eyes unsettles me, like she can see exactly what I did less than an hour ago.

She blinks, and the spell is over. The dog. She’s apologizing for her dog.

“No, it’s fine. My fault.” I set Yeti’s carrier on an empty chair and offer my downturned hand to Brutus. “Sorry, bud.”

Yes. Focus on the dog. The tiny, cute dog. Not the captivating stranger who makes me feel like she can see straight through me.

Brutus sniffs my hand, his button black nose quivering, then gives my knuckles a tentative lick. I scratch under his chin, and he gives my hand a few more frantic licks in appreciation. The woman laughs, low and syrupy like honey. “Made a new friend, huh? You’re such a sucker for pretty girls.”

My heart somersaults in my chest. I suddenly feel nauseous. “Nice meeting you,” I mumble, picking up Yeti’s carrier and bringing him to the reception desk. The back of my neck burns as I scurry away. Is she watching me go? Why do I care? Am I jealous? I’ve never been jealous of pretty women before.

It doesn’t matter. I have more important problems, like Yeti. And Jack.

An exhausted twenty-something with bags under her heavy-lidded blue eyes checks us in. “So, what brings you and Yeti in today?”

“My—”

I swallow. Best not mention Jack. It feels like inviting bad luck.

“My mistake. I tripped over him going down the stairs, and I think I hurt his ribs. I feel terrible.”

The receptionist’s brows pull together in a wrinkle of sympathy and concern. “I’m so sorry. It says in his chart he’s deaf, right? Poor guy probably didn’t hear you coming.”

I force a thin smile of gratitude. I don’t deserve her sympathy. This is my fault, after all. My fault for not protecting Yeti from Jack. For a split second, a hot coal of anger lodges behind my sternum, and I’m glad I killed him. He’ll never hurt Yeti again.

I know Jack’s an addict. I know he isn’t in control when he grabs my wrist a little too hard or breaks something. He’s always drunk when he does it, so it’s the alcohol manipulating his brain, because he’s never like that when he’s sober. But, addict or not, this is the first and last time he’ll hurt my fucking cat.

A hard lump of shame sticks in my throat.

You’re a monster! You killed your husband! And you don’t even regret it!

“Okay, you’re checked in. Take a seat and we’ll be with you in a few minutes.”

I can’t leave fast enough. My skin crawls and I feel filthy, like I’m still covered in blood instead of lingering streaks of rain. I don’t realize I’ve sat across from Brutus and his owner until I hear him whine. I flinch, but don’t turn toward the sound. I can’t bear look into the woman’s eyes again, but they’re already burned into my brain. I’ve never seen eyes like that before — eyes that seem to know every sin I’ve ever committed.

“Rosemary?”

A chair scrapes across the floor, making my breath catch and Yeti squirm in his carrier. I click my tongue, stroking him through the netting of his carrier as the woman stands, carrying Brutus across the waiting room. As she passes by, I catch the scent of warm, sweet woodsmoke. I frown. It’s pleasant, but what kind of perfume smells like that?

***

I wait while the vet examines Yeti, hands twisting in my lap. The worst is when they take him in back, leaving me alone in the cramped, brightly lit exam room. Alone with my phone and my thoughts.

My fingers twitch to open a search engine and type the questions bubbling in my brain. What’s the best way to remove blood so luminol can’t detect it? How deep should you bury a body so floods and scavengers won’t unearth it? There are plenty of both in Florida. All I have to go on is the phrase ‘six feet under’, and who knows how accurate that is?

It feels like hours until the vet returns and sets Yeti’s carrier on the exam table. I hop out of my chair, stroking his fluffy white haunches through the netting. He leans into my hand but keeps his face buried in his blanket. It’s powder blue, with mice on it. I bought it especially for him, because he likes kneading the fleecy texture. 

“How is he?” I ask the vet, a spindly older gentleman with coke bottle glasses. I can’t meet his eyes, scared I’ll see bad news in them. If Yeti won’t make it, I might as well turn myself in. Without him, the death penalty seems like a fitting end. I’ll pay for killing Jack and failing Yeti, and donate all my assets to local animal shelters.

“I want to keep him overnight to take and review some scans, but from the physical exam, I feel positive. I don’t think he has any serious internal damage.”

My knees wobble with pure relief. “Oh, thank god.” The growing hope that Yeti will be okay allows me to take my first full breath in over an hour. “And you’ll call me as soon as you take the scans? As soon as you know if anything’s wrong?”

“Absolutely.” The vet glances at Yeti’s carrier with a fond smile. “The techs in back loved him. He’s a special guy.”

“Yeah.” A thick lump burns in my throat, causing my voice to break. “He is. Promise you’ll call?”

He circles the exam table and places a reassuring hand on my shoulder. “As soon as possible.”

I sniff, wipe my eyes with the back of my hand, and unzip the front of the carrier to say goodbye. Yeti unearths himself from the blanket and turns around, offering me his chin for scritches. “Be good, okay, baby? I’ll come get you as soon as I can.” He closes his eyes, purring with his normal cadence instead of the frantic wheezing from before.

It takes everything I have to leave him, but I tear myself away, knowing that I’ll start sobbing if I look back. I stumble back into the waiting room, gritting my teeth so I won’t cry. The bored receptionist is distracted with her computer, and Rosemary and her chihuahua are gone.

Good. She gave me a weird feeling, anyway. And I’ve got bigger problems, like my husband’s body waiting for me in my garage.

***

At 3 AM, the thunderstorm is raging again. I don’t know whether to curse fate or thank my lucky stars. The likelihood of someone seeing what I’m about to do during a thunderstorm in the middle of the night is practically nil, but it won’t be easy.

I dig out the headlamp Jack uses for repairs in tight places, switch it on, and grab a fresh set of gloves from under the sink. Then I bundle myself in Jack’s old raincoat and creep into the garage. It’s dark, humid, and smells like an overflowing garbage can. The tarp is still draped over the wheelbarrow, hiding the horrible thing I’ve done.

A shiver of disgust runs down my spine. Has he already started decomposing? What will he look like when I pull the tarp off? I take a deep breath and, even though my feet feel like cinderblocks, I drag myself toward the wheelbarrow.

Strange. The tarp is unexpectedly flat. If I didn’t know better, I’d think Jack wasn’t there. Swallowing around the taste of fear and disgust, I flip the tarp back.

Nothing.

The wheelbarrow is empty.

Jack’s body is gone.