How To Kill Your Husband (Ch. 3) (Patreon)

step three: poison?

The call comes shortly after breakfast. After half an hour of arguing, I convince Jack to stay home while I pick up Yeti. In typical Jack style, he tries to bully me into tagging along, but I can’t bear the thought of being trapped in a car with him.

I stop for gas on the way even though the tank’s two-thirds full. Anything to slow the trip down. The heat outside is sweltering. Sweat beads on my hairline and the stink of gasoline burns in my nose as I start the pump. Usually, Jack does this part. 

I’m sure I loved him, once upon a time. When we were college students playing frisbee on the quad and chasing fireflies in the park, he was a dream come true. That was before the binge drinking, the anger issues, and kicking Yeti. I can feel the memory softening into something more palatable, tempting me to pretend it didn’t happen, but I won’t forget. I’ll never forgive him for hurting Yeti.

Jack isn’t my sweet college boyfriend anymore. He’s always been volatile, sweet as sugar one minute and hateful the next. But since he came back, my heart chugs into overdrive whenever he gets close—some deeply held instinct warning me of danger.

I can’t ignore my feelings. I can’t ignore the fact that Jack lied about his memories. He could turn me into the police at the drop of a hat—and he’s such a charmer, he can talk anyone into anything. In a he said, she said situation, I just know they’ll believe him. If I run, he’ll send the police after me, or chase me down himself. He’s threatened to do that in the past when I brought up divorce during our lowest points.

I put the pump away and pay for the top-up. I guess this means I’m killing my husband, on purpose this time. But I can’t be careless. No stabbing him in the kitchen. I need to be subtle, or I’ll leave Yeti an orphan. He really is like my child, since Jack and I never wanted kids.

The weight of the decision rests heavily on my shoulders as I drive to the vet’s office. It has to be clean this time. Poison, maybe? I know a thing or two about poisonous plants, but not enough to plan a murder…

I haven’t made any progress by the time I pull into Shadyside’s parking lot. I park the car and close my eyes, taking a deep breath in through my nose. I’m here for Yeti. With a long exhale, I open my eyes. “I’m coming, baby boy. Mama’s coming.”

My heart feels a little lighter as I walk into the clinic. The same tired girl from yesterday checks me in and waves me to an empty chair. I sit on the edge, bouncing my knee and glancing at the exam room doors every few seconds.

Finally, a technician ushers me into one of the rooms. Tears sting my eyes when I spot Yeti’s carrier waiting on the exam table. I unzip it, scooping him into my arms and cradling him against my chest. He purrs like a motor, tucking his head under my chin. I bury my face in his fur. Under the antiseptic smell of the vet’s office, I inhale his warm, familiar scent.

The technician is kind enough to give me a minute with Yeti while fetching the vet. I’ve choked back most of my tears by the time he comes in, but Yeti’s head and neck are damp with the evidence. It’s the same older, spectacled gentleman from yesterday, and there’s a warm smile on his face.

“Yeti’s looking good, Gabrielle. I didn’t see any broken bones or internal injuries on his scans.”

An answering smile stretches across my face. “Thanks, Doctor…” His use of my first name makes me realize I didn’t bother to remember his. I glance at the name tag pinned to his scrubs. “Apple? That’s a fun name.”

The wrinkles around his eyes scrunch cheerfully. “Guess what my ancestors were?”

“Peach farmers.”.

“How did you know?” He winks, then glances at his clipboard. “Anyway, Yeti here ate a full can of food this morning, so you can continue feeding as normal. The techs wrote here that it was ‘very important’ for you to know that he was ‘the best-behaved boy ever’. They can’t wait for his annual visit in a few months.”

The sick feeling in my stomach fizzles out. For the first time all day, I feel like I can breathe again. “Thank you so much.” I squeeze Yeti tight to my chest and he butts the underside of my chin. “I would’ve never forgiven myself if…”

“Accidents happen,” Dr. Apple says. “Luckily, there was no permanent damage. I’m sure he’ll be happy to go home.”

Reluctantly, I pour Yeti back into his carrier. His wheezing purr continues. I press my hand against the netting so he can feel it. “Thank you so much. He’s my whole world.”

“Then he’s a very lucky cat.” Dr. Apple sets the clipboard on the exam table and places a friendly hand on my shoulder. “Don’t hesitate to call if you notice any problems, like vomiting, lethargy, or a reluctance to eat. His behavior seemed great this morning, though.”

“I will. No offense, but I hope I don’t see you again until January.”

He laughs. “I hope so, too. Take care, now.”

“You too, hon.”

I carry Yeti into the waiting room, but someone’s already standing at the desk: someone with shapely calves above a pair of cherry red pumps. The sweet smell of woodsmoke curls into my nose. It’s the woman from yesterday, the one with the chihuahua. This time, Brutus is absent.

The woman turns, hitting me with a dazzling white smile. Crap. What did she say her name was?

“Hello again.” Her rich amber eyes burn a hole right through me. “How’s your cat?” She bends her knees, peering inside Yeti’s carrier. Yeti picks up an audible purr, pressing his little pink nose against the netting.

“He’s fine, thanks.” I cough, clearing the nervous crack from my voice. “Um, how’s Brutus?” It’s so embarrassing, remembering her dog’s name but not hers.

Her bold, expressive brows arch. “Perfect. Just getting his arthritis medication. He has a mild case of hip dysplasia.”

“Oh, he’s a senior? So is Yeti.”

“That’s great.” She holds her fingers up to the carrier, allowing Yeti to get a good sniff. He squishes his face against the side, hungry for affection even while confined. I notice that her nails are well-manicured, with cool blue polish that matches the colorful braided extensions in her hair. There’s a red accent on the nail of her fourth finger, painted in the shape of a heart. “What a sweet boy. I’m glad he’s okay.”

I chew the corner of my lip. “He’s much better today. There was a minor incident with the stairs yesterday.” The lie comes easily, but it tastes like ash on my tongue.

“Oh no.” A wrinkle forms between her brows and at the very top of her nose. “I hope he’s okay.”

The girl behind the counter clears her throat. “Excuse me, Rosemary? I’ve got your medication here.”

Rosemary. That’s it. Why couldn’t I remember? It was right on the tip of my tongue.

Rosemary straightens and turns around, accepting a white paper bag from across the counter. “Thanks, hon. Sorry—that cat was too cute to miss.” She aims a smirk my way, and my stomach flutters. I feel like I’m back in high school, finally getting a chance to talk with the popular cheerleader.

“Are you still at the Baywood Drive address?” the tech asks Rosemary.

“No, sorry,” Rosemary says. “I moved a few weeks ago. My new address is 303 Garden Street.”

I perk my head up. “Garden Street? Near Devil’s Millhopper?”

Rosemary tilts her head. “Yeah, about a five-minute drive from the park.”

“That’s where we live. Are you the house on the corner? We’re right across the street.”

“That’s wild.” Rosemary extends her hand. Her palm is butter smooth, her grip warm and reassuring. “Nice to meet you, neighbor. I haven’t gotten around to ringing doorbells with the traditional offering of baked goods yet.”

“Don’t tempt me.”

“You sure?” Rosemary leans closer, her hand still wrapped around mine. The dark, rich smell of her perfume grows stronger, and my lashes flutter. There’s something about her—a magnetic pull. The kind of aura I only wish I could have myself.

“Well, twist my arm.”

“The recipe may be simple, but my peanut butter cookies are to die for.”

My breath hitches and I withdraw my hand from hers. Jack’s allergic to peanut butter. Could it be that simple? Just…arrange an accident? The thought of involving Rosemary makes my stomach twist into a tight knot, but the opportunity is too good to pass up. I smother my guilt and force a smile.

“That sounds lovely.” Maybe I can bring one home and hide it in something Jack will eat. I’ll have to move his epi-pen to a different place, but it’s so simple it might be brilliant.

“I’ll be sure to drop by,” Rosemary says.

My cheeks flush. I haven’t hung out with another woman my age in years. With Jack’s issues, maintaining friendships isn’t easy. And Rosemary seems incredible—the kind of woman anyone would be ecstatic to make friends with. I might not be in high school anymore, but maybe it isn’t too late. Maybe she can tell me where she gets her hair and nails done.

“Really? That sounds great.”

The girl behind the counter clears her throat again. My blush becomes one of embarrassment. “Sorry. We got sucked into a Southern goodbye, didn’t we?”

“We sure did.” Rosemary’s fingertips caress the side of my arm. It’s a casual gesture, but it sends goosebumps crawling along my skin. “See you around, Gabrielle. Now that you know where I live, drop by any time.”

I swallow hard. “Thanks. I might just take you up on that.”

With a wave, Rosemary departs, leaving me with the bored-looking tech waiting to take my payment. I give her my information as quickly as possible to make up for the delay.

A few minutes later, I’m two hundred bucks poorer but a whole lot happier, knowing Yeti will be okay. And maybe I have a solution to my problem.

***

By the time I pull into the garage, I have the outline of a plan in my head:

Step one, be affectionate. Jack can’t know that I know he knows.

Step two, befriend Rosemary. Graciously accept her peanut butter cookies.

Step three, hide it in something else.

Step four, hide Jack’s epi-pen.

It’s so simple it might be genius. It’s also probably stupid as hell.

“This is a stupid plan,” I groan, bumping my head against the steering wheel. “Stupid, stupid, stupid.” There’s no guarantee Jack will eat the cookie. No guarantee the allergic reaction with kill him. He had a freakish recovery after being stabbed. Who’s to say it won’t happen again?

But I have to try. Something’s very wrong with Jack, something much worse than the alcohol and the abuse. Something evil. I felt it crawl under my skin and burrow into my marrow the moment he touched me this morning.

I can’t let him get me first. I won’t be the dumb blonde from the movies who ignores the vengeful killer until it’s too late. My mama was a bitch, but she didn’t raise a fool.

Yeti warbles mournfully from the back seat, reminding me that I have more than myself to look out for. I leave the car and circle around the side to unbuckle his carrier. “We’re gonna be okay,” I tell him, staring into his misty blue eyes. “Mama’s gonna make sure no one ever hurts you again.”

The last thing I want to do is go back into the house, but I have no choice. I glance at the empty wheelbarrow and the trash bags underneath. They seem undisturbed. I set Yeti’s carrier down by the back door and toss the bags into the garbage bin. Thank god it’s trash day tomorrow. With Jack alive, disposing of the towels isn’t as urgent.

I bring Yeti into the house. He squirms and paws at his carrier the moment we step through the door into the mud room. It’s dark and quiet inside, like nobody’s home. I can’t be that lucky.

“Jack? You there, hon?”

I wait a moment, but there’s no answer.

I flip the lights on and unzip Yeti’s carrier. He staggers out in a bit of a daze, blinking at me with scrunched eyes like he isn’t quite sure where he is, even though this is the only home he’s ever known. I can only sigh and shake my head. This cat… he’s a total sweetheart, but he doesn’t have the good sense god gave a goose.

“Gabby?”

I jump, clasping my hand to my heart. Jack stands in the kitchen doorway, leaning casually against the wall. His wavy brown hair is tousled and he looks a shade paler than usual, but otherwise, he seems completely normal.

“Jesus, Jack. You just about scared me to death!”

Jack steps forward and wraps me in his arms, picking me up in a big bear hug. I freeze in his embrace, unable to run, incapable of wrapping my arms around him. I can’t move a muscle as he twirls me around. All the air rushes out of my lungs, and my heart lurches against my ribs, pounding like I’m sprinting the 100-meter dash.

 Even after he sets me down, it takes me several moments to remember how to breathe. He places his hands on my shoulders, peering down at me with a wrinkle of concern in his brow. “You okay, gabs? You didn’t hug me back.”

Fighting against my instincts, I lean in and wrap my arms around him. “Sorry,” I mumble into his chest. “I’m a little numb, I guess. Yeti’s going to be fine, but it hasn’t fully hit me.”

Jack kisses the top of my head. “That’s amazing, babe. I feel like a failure of a husband for asking this, but what happened? Thanks to Mr. Bourbon, I don’t remember.”

My mouth goes dry and I taste the copper of adrenaline on my tongue. Yet again, I can tell he’s lying. I step back, relieved when he lets me go. “I tripped over him. He didn’t hear me coming.”

“You should be more careful,” Jack says. “You know he’s deaf.”

The fear thrumming through my body becomes a simmering anger that burns the pit of my stomach. As if Jack cares. As if I’m the one who needs reminding about my own damn cat’s disabilities. “I know,” I said. “But he’s going to be all right.”

“Good.”

Jack walks past me, softly caressing the base of my spine as he does. The touch sends invisible spiders crawling along my spine. “I need to go to a meeting,” he says, grabbing his keys from the catch-all tray. “I would have gone this morning, but this was the earliest one I could get into.”

“A meeting?” Usually, I’m the one who pushes Jack to go to meetings, unless he knows he really fucked up and I’m on the cusp of serving him divorce papers. “Want me to come? Should I drive you?”

He shakes his head, and his smile looks almost sad. “No. This is something I have to do on my own. I need to turn in my ninety-day chip and start fresh. It hurts, but I can’t let something like yesterday happen again. It isn’t fair to you, or us.”

Us. As angry and terrified as I am, I can’t deny the slight flutter of hope that stirs in my heart. Jack and I were an us. A pretty fantastic us, when he’s sober. That’s the problem with alcohol. Some of us can drink a few without a second thought, but it turns others into unrecognizable monsters.

Maybe I’m the monster. I’m the one who stabbed my husband. If he’s trying, shouldn’t I? Isn’t that what marriage is about?

I take his hand in mine, running my thumb over the soft, familiar vein on the back. “Good luck. I’m…proud of you.”

Jack squeezes my hand. “Here. Be proud of me when I get my ninety-day chip back.” He reaches into his pocket, removing the chip and pressing it into my palm. “This is just a loan,” he says. “It’ll do me good to know you have it until I’m ready to take it back.” Then he goes into the garage, leaving me alone in the mud room with my muddled thoughts.

I stare down at the chip, heaving a deep sigh. Damn. I thought I had this all figured out. One moment, I’m convinced some evil entity worse than alcohol has taken over my husband. The next, he seems almost normal—the good side of his normal. I can’t trust my judgment. Can’t trust anything.

***

Jack returns that evening in a somber mood. I’m acutely aware of his every movement and microexpression as he goes through his evening routine: showering, shaving, and changing. Nothing seems out of the ordinary, but I hover by the bed to watch him anyway, keeping a safe distance. Sometimes, he initiates sex around this time of day. If he does, I’m not sure I can go through with it.

Sex with Jack is good most of the time, except when he’s drunk. Then, it’s much easier going along to get along. He would never physically force me, but the whining and pouting completely ruins my evening. Tonight, though, the thought of him touching me makes my insides squirm.

Luckily, he doesn’t try anything; just kisses the top of my head on his way to the kitchen. I’ve already made chicken and dumplings, so he sets the dining room table and serves it up. He even lights a tea candle for the middle of the table and gets out the good cloth napkins.

“If I’d known we were eating fancy, I’d have made something nicer,” I say.

Jack pulls my chair out for me. I sit, trying my best to ignore the chills of undefinable wrongness running up and down my spine. He pushes me in, resting his heavy hand on my shoulder. “It’s plenty good enough for me.”

I swallow around the nervous lump in my throat. There’s nothing discernably different about Jack’s behavior, and it’s driving me crazier than a sprayed roach. Why can’t I see it? What am I missing?

To my relief, Jack removes his hand. He dips into the kitchen, returning a moment later with two bottles. I don’t even realize I’m gritting my teeth until I see the label. “Gourmet soda?”

“Blackberry.” He pops one of the caps with a carbonated hiss and sets it next to my plate. “Thought we might could try something different, since I dumped the booze.”

I lick my lips and look at the soda. My plan for poison (even if the poison in question is peanut butter) has me questioning everything. But I watched Jack open the bottle. If he is planning to drop the act and kill me at some point, poison isn’t his style. I wrap my hand around the cold, sweaty neck and take a healthy swig. The sweet-tart flavor tingles on my tongue. “Pretty good.”

Jack takes a drink too. He sets the bottle down and sighs, smacking his lips. “Yeah. They sell cases with different flavors at the Publix.” He stares at me from across the table, his arched brows and soft smile hopeful.

“Sure, Jack. Sounds good.”

We eat our chicken and dumplings in strained silence. I feel the weight of Jack’s gaze as he watches me eat, so I chew and swallow dutifully. It’s all mechanical. I barely taste the food. Eventually, I force out a strained conversation starter: “How was your meeting?”

“Tough,” Jack says. “It’s not the first time I’ve admitted what a jackass I can be, but damn, it never gets easier.”

I feel a stab of sympathy for him before I remember—this is only one side of Jack. I’ve done the math over and over again these past few days, and the answer is always the same. The positives don’t outweigh the negatives.

But I have to fake it for now; for my own safety, and Yeti’s too.

I force myself to reach out and stroke Jack’s arm, giving it a reassuring squeeze. I need to offer him encouragement, or he’ll know something’s up. “I know it’s tough, but you went and shared. You’re tougher.”

Jack places his hand over mine, running his thumb along my wrist. “So long as I’ve got you, I stand a chance. This fight just feels too big to face alone.” He bends down and kisses the top of my head. “I know I don’t deserve you, Gabs, but I’m damn lucky to have you.”

“You are.”

He takes both of my hands in his, squeezing too tight. The bones of my fingers ache in the earnestness of his grip. “Never leave me, babe. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

Sweat breaks out at the base of my spine and a feeling of disgust crawls along my shoulders. “I won’t leave. Promise.”