I’d never attended a funeral before, but I needed to be in the room for this one, mostly to make sure the jackass in the casket stayed dead. I now understood why people dreaded these things. The weeping. The somber music. The recounting of stories no one cared about. The pregame week of casseroles.
Richmond Dougherty. Make that Dr. Richmond Dougherty. Renowned pediatric surgeon. Childhood hero. Infamous tragedy survivor. He deserved to be in a box. He should have been in a box decades ago, but some things took time.
The dramatic music swelled and the minister, or whatever his official title was, finished what felt like the twentieth prayer of the hourlong service. When everyone stood, I turned, ready to bolt outside for some fresh air. Then the line started.
The audience queued in the center aisle, headed toward the casket. With a low rumble of uncomfortable conversation, the mourners and gawkers filed up, one by one, and paid homage to the now-boxed Richmond. Some people peeked inside before moving on. Others stopped. A few talked to the dead body.
My stomach growled, making me regret leaving half a bagel on the kitchen counter before this shindig started.
Minutes dragged by, slow enough for the prolonged genuflecting to turn comical. Finally, Kathryn Dougherty, high school sweetheart and mother to Richmond’s two perfectly educated, perfectly dressed children, wandered up to take her turn. With unsteady steps, she passed the cascade of blue and yellow bouquets, colors said to be Richmond’s favorites. She plunged headfirst into the drama with teary nods to a few people on her right and the reach of a consoling hand toward someone in the pews to her left, fingers never quite touching.
An expert level display of grief and ego. The woman was on fire.
Her son, Wyatt, twenty and doing an admirable job of hiding his panic because Daddy’s death touched off a tectonic shift in the handling of family assets, slipped in beside his mother and half dragged, half carried the wilting woman to the front of the room. Neither paid much attention to fifteen-year-old Portia, who tagged along. She walked with hesitant steps, sniffling in her flowing black dress, likely wishing she were back in the safe arms of her swanky boarding school.
The organist marked the somber family death march by pounding out chords in such an exaggerated manner that more than one person winced at the harsh melody. The scene was quite the mesmerizing display. Just as Kathryn intended.
I fought the urge to glance at my cellphone as Kathryn finally arrived at the casket. A heart-wrenching sob echoed throughout the church before she flung her body over Richmond’s. Her arms disappeared inside the casket. Her hair somehow didn’t move, but kudos to her for playing the role to the very end. That kind of commitment deserved a round of applause to accompany the stunned gasps floating through the room.
“This can’t be happening.” Kathryn choked out the words through a new bout of uncontrolled crying. “I can’t lose you.”
Too late.
Wyatt rushed to fish his mother out of the casket and knocked against the
flower spray resting on top, sending loose petals spilling onto Kathryn and whatever else was in the box.
“Noooo.” Kathryn broke into a full-throated wail this time.
Shouting yes! seemed like too much, so I refrained.
“Mom. It’s okay. Come on.” Wyatt hovered over Kathryn’s convulsing body, trying to lift her off his dead father.
Stark whispers bounced around the back of the room. I ignored them, transfixed by the acting master class in front of me. Portia didn’t appear as impressed. She walked away from her mother in a gloomy cloud of teenage despair just as the minister swooped in to assist Wyatt. Kathryn’s legs barely held her as they pulled her out and dropped her sobbing form into a nearby pew.
This bitch knew how to work a room.
With a deep inhale, the minister dragged his attention away from all the weeping and waved his hand in my direction. “Mrs. Dougherty?”
Oh, shit. Right. Me. Mrs. Addison Dougherty. Dear dead Richmond’s much younger second wife. A recent addition to this dysfunctional family. Town pariah. The person most people blamed for Richmond being in that box.
They weren’t totally wrong. I wanted to kill him.
Someone beat me to it.
The bedroom lights flickered on and off as music blared through all three stories of the large colonial house. An early morning unwanted wake-up call. The screen saver on my cellphone said it wasn’t yet three. The pounding near my temples would likely last all day.
Richmond was consistent. A jackass, but a consistent one. He’d been playing this game for four days now. He’d weaponized the smart-home devices, sending the house into a downward spiral of flashing lights, spiking temperatures, and malfunctioning alarms.
So much for thinking he’d get bored. He’d ratcheted up his nonsense and added music from the whole-house speakers this round. The only solace came from knowing messing with me meant messing up his own sleep. But his behavior begged for a harsh lesson. The kind of metaphorical beating that would make him hesitate before unleashing his next bright idea.
Like most men in his I-deserve-expensive-things circle, he craved power, but he failed to understand how to harness it. Real power grew out of a festering anger that fought any form of healing. Match fury with rigid determination and a bone-deep sense of I don’t care what you think about me, and you win.
Richmond didn’t have the nerve. Behind the toothy grin and love of shiny objects, he needed to be liked. To be praised and honored. To believe the masses existed to bask in his glory. That misplaced hubris would be his downfall. Because all the male posturing in the world couldn’t defeat a ticked-off woman on a mission.
Richmond had tricks and nighttime maneuvers. An array of covert actions to prove he reigned as top bully in the household. I had leverage. And a bat.
Throwing off the covers, I slid out of bed and into my slippers. The night-light from the attached bathroom showed the way. After a quick check in the mirror to make sure my loose pajamas still covered what needed to remain covered, I grabbed the end of the bat from its resting place next to my side of the bed.
There was no need to rush because revenge should be savored. By the time I reached my bedroom door, my sole goal and deepest desire turned to making Richmond wet himself with fear.
Undoing the bolt lock took a second then into the hallway, ready to go and swinging the weapon I’d bought for added security a week ago. The walk to his bedroom door took a dramatically long time. The moonlight streaming through the window lit my path. I marched past a series of closed doors until I got to his end of the second-floor hallway. The space under the closed door leading to this suite remained dark, as if he were pretending to be asleep.
Nice try.
He started this battle. Tonight, I would end it.
I turned the knob but the door didn’t move. He’d locked it. Unlucky for him, I’d predicted another night of household harassment and loosened the screws to his simple chain lock. Why? Because I played this game better than he did. I created the fucking game.
One well-placed shoulder shove nearly knocked the door off its hinges.
“What the hell?” The light beside his bed clicked on. Richmond sat there, wide-eyed and gawking.
A good start.
“You’ve been a very bad boy, my dear husband.”
He reached for his cellphone and did something to make the music clanging through the house stop. Next came the removal of his earplugs. Then he shot me his best outraged man expression. “What are you doing?”
Such unimpressive huffing and puffing. I aimed the end of the bat in the direction of his head. “I warned you to behave.”
“Get the hell out of my bedroom.”
“That doesn’t sound like an apology.” Time to swing and that stupid plaque hanging on the wall looked like the perfect target. The award naming him as a top doctor in New York State. It used to hang on the wall in the primary bedroom, but he took it with him when he relocated like it was his prized possession and not some nonsense way for a magazine to sell ads.
The crack split through the quiet room as wood slammed into the plaster with enough force to vibrate up my arms and put a dent in the wall. The award landed with a thud. The lamp on the chest of drawers beneath it teetered then fell, crashing and ripping a hole in the shade.
Perfect.
He stood up. “You stupid—”
“No.” A slight pivot and now the bat hovered between us. “You don’t get to create chaos then belittle me with nasty names when I call you out on your bullshit.”
Standing six feet away, he stared at the end of the bat, clearly weighing the chance of grabbing it before I could land another swing.
“I dare you.” Part of me ached for him to push me too far. “Please give me an excuse to beat you to death with this.”
His eyes darted left then right as he performed what looked like a mental countdown. Probably giving himself a you can do it rah-rah speech like the psychopath he was.
He’d been showered with years of fawning press. Sycophantic fans prattled on about his courage and good looks. The black hair with silver streaks. The deep blue eyes. His admirers missed his rotting heart. The one I dreamed about tearing out of his chest, throwing on the floor, and stomping into a pulverized puddle of slush.
He took a deep breath. “What are you doing in here, Addison?”
An interesting change in tone. He sounded calm and reassuring. Refocused and carefully tuned to suggest I was the unhinged one. When he talked like this my paranoia about the presence of listening devices spiked. He was supposed to be a genius, after all. But I repeatedly checked and used a bug sweeper and never found anything, so I didn’t edit my words when we were alone.
Smart or not he deserved the hellfire I’d been using to douse his once-storybook adult life. And I was only getting started.
“I told you to stop playing with the smart-home features.” I’d been pretty clear on that point. Warned him more than once that
he was wandering down a dangerous path. One that could blow up what was left of his carefully structured life.
He shook his head. “And I reminded you this is my house.”
Oh, come on. This fight didn’t require much energy at all. He could do better. “Not anymore.”
A nerve in his cheek twitched. “I wanted to listen to music.”
I refused to give him the satisfaction of calling out the blatant lie. Not when the bat could speak for me. The second swing lacked the star power of the first, but it was more targeted. The end smacked into the small case on his dresser that housed his prized watch. The crystal shattered and pieces pinged against the hardwood floor.
He dove as if he could catch the parts and magically put the timepiece back together in midair. When he looked up again he was on his knees in the middle of the guest room floor, cradling his beloved and now destroyed watch. “One of these days you’re going to go too far.”
An empty threat. How adorable. “Then what will happen?”
For a few seconds he stared, silently seething as hatred oozed out of him. Those priceless surgeon’s hands cradled the broken and once very expensive watch. His thumb brushed over what had been its face. “You win this round.”
He gave in quicker than expected. That couldn’t be good. “Tomorrow we’ll change the passwords.”
He hadn’t blinked since I stalked into the room. He was a man accustomed to getting his way. He bullied and harassed. Plotted without regard for anyone else. He was the type to force people to squeal then complain about the noise they made.
Those days were over.
“We’ll change the passwords if you get rid of the bat.” He stood up, looming over me and using every inch of his six-one frame to intimidate.
Dark energy swirled around us. A toxic mix of contempt and mistrust. I sucked it in and used it as fuel. “This isn’t a negotiation.”
“I can’t spend my nights worrying that you’ll get pissed off and kill me in my sleep. My job is too demanding. I need focus and rest.”
Always the victim. “I’m impressed you got this far into the conversation before reminding me about how important you are.”
“Some of us worked hard to earn the life we have.” He nodded in my direction. “Some of us just take.”
This asshole. He acted as if I didn’t know what I knew. “Do you really want to have that discussion, dearest husband?”
He finally looked away to stare at the window and acres of quiet night beyond. “Don’t call me that.”
“Then let me be clear, Richmond.” I waited until he looked at me again. “If I wanted to kill you, you’d be dead. So stop tempting me.” ...
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