Her Silent Shadow: A Gripping Psychological Suspense Collection

by Edwin Dasso

  By the time I heard Clara’s car pull up in the driveway, I had cleaned up thoroughly, washing the cooking implements by hand in very hot water and plenty of detergent before stacking them in the dishwasher for further washing. The gloves and the Ziplock bag, after a thorough rinse, went into the rubbish bin, which I then emptied, tying the bin liner and putting it into the wheelie bin outside. The council would empty it in the morning.

  I couldn’t be too careful.

  “Something smells delicious!”

  I fixed a big smile on my face and turned, wiping my hands on the dishcloth draped over my shoulder.

  “Hi, how was your day?”

  “Good.” She smiled and walked into the kitchen. “What have you made? It smells yum.”

  She spotted the saucepan and reached out to dip her finger in the sauce.

  “Uh uh,” I said and pushed her hand away. “Not yet. I still have to boil the pasta.”

  “Mmmm, I’m starving.” She raised an eyebrow. “I thought you were carb-free?”

  For a week now, I had been preparing low carb meals, all part of the new fit me—at least, that’s what I told her.

  “I am.” I gestured toward the oven. “I’ve grilled some chicken for me. Now, go and get changed. You have ten minutes.”

  “Okay, okay.” Clara smiled and walked out of the kitchen toward the bedroom.

  “I got that Pinot Grigio you like,” I called after her. “I know it’s a weeknight, but...”

  Clara stopped by the bedroom door and looked back. “What’s the occasion?”

  “I...” I sighed. “I guess I just wanted us to try again.” I looked down at the floor as if struggling for words, then looked up again. “Things haven’t been great between us recently, so I thought, let’s make it like old times.” I hoped I wasn’t laying it on too thick.

  She looked back at me for a moment, and for a second, I thought I might have blown it. Then she nodded.

  “Cool. I’ll be out in ten.”

  The bedroom door clicked shut behind her, and I exhaled.

  So far, so good.

  27

  While the pasta was boiling, I stir-fried spinach in garlic, then set the table, using the good plates, and even lit a candle. Once the pasta was done, I tossed it in the sauce, then put it and the spinach into serving bowls. Removing the chicken from the oven, I placed it on my plate and took everything to the table. Standing back, I checked everything on the table was just right, then adjusted the cutlery on her side, ensuring it was straight—everything had to be perfect.

  Just as I finished, the bedroom door opened, and Clara walked out. She had changed into a long black dress that clung to her hips and accentuated the gentle swell of her breasts. Her hair was tied up in a high ponytail, which served to emphasize her cheekbones, and a pair of long golden earrings framed her face.

  “Wow! You look beautiful.” She really did. I felt a twinge of guilt and resisted looking at the pasta.

  She smiled and shrugged at the same time. “Well, if my husband has made such an effort, I thought I better try, too.”

  I felt heat in my cheeks. Was I doing the right thing?

  She pulled out a chair, sat down, then picked up the empty wineglass and wiggled it.

  “The wine! Ah, yes, sorry.” I snapped out of it and rushed to the fridge, then filled her glass and mine. Putting the bottle back in the fridge, I sat down opposite her.

  “Please, start.” I gestured to the pasta. “I hope you like it.”

  “You know me and pasta.”

  I added spinach to my plate, picked up a fork, and waited for Clara to finish serving herself.

  “Buon appetito.”

  Clara grinned. “Grazie mille.”

  I cut into my grilled chicken and watched her from the corner of my eye as she took a big mouthful of pasta.

  “Mmmm.” She rolled her eyes. “This is fabulous!”

  “Good.” I picked up my wineglass. “It has some of this in the sauce.”

  “Superb.” She licked her lips and picked up her own glass. “Thank you.”

  We clinked glasses and took a sip at the same time. I gazed across the table at her. She really was beautiful.

  Her eyes twinkled in the candlelight as she returned my gaze. “Are you sure you won’t have some?” she asked and nodded toward the pasta.

  “No. If I have some, I won’t stop. I’m really trying to be disciplined.”

  She held her glass up and winked. “Not so disciplined. There are plenty of carbs in this.”

  “Well, yes...” I shrugged. “But I wanted to make the evening special.” I put my glass down and reached across the table for her hand. “I’m really sorry I’ve been making you unhappy. I want things to go back to the way they were. The way we were.”

  Clara gave my hand a squeeze, then picked up her fork. “Keep cooking for me like this,”—she pointed at her plate with it and smiled—“and we won’t have a problem.”

  “Ha. Happily.”

  “Are you sure you won’t have some?”

  I shook my head again. “No, thanks. I have plenty to eat.”

  “Okay.” She twirled the pasta around on her fork and just before putting it into her mouth, said, “It’s your loss.”

  Smiling, I picked up my glass and took a large mouthful of wine, then replied, “It’s all yours, my sweet. All yours.”

  28

  If Clara hadn’t subjected me to death by a thousand cuts over the last six months, I would have called the dinner a great success. By the time she had finished all the pasta and three-quarters of a bottle of wine, her cheeks were flushed, and she was giggling a little too frequently. This was how it was supposed to be, but too much had been said, too much had been done, for us to go back. It couldn’t be unheard or unremembered. Tomorrow she could just as easily switch back to her evil twin. She deserved everything that was coming to her.

  So, in a way, the dinner was a great success—she had finished all the pasta.

  I told her to remain seated while I cleared up, but after a couple of minutes, I found her arms around me as I stood at the sink, rinsing off the plates. She nuzzled her lips into my neck and rubbed my chest with her hands.

  “Dinner was fabulous.”

  “Thank you.”

  Her right hand slipped lower, down to the front of my jeans.

  “You can do the dishes tomorrow.”

  My teeth clenched together, and I willed myself to relax, making myself smile even though she couldn’t see my face. I had to act normal, not give her any reason to doubt me.

  “I’ll be quick. It’s better they’re all done today.”

  She rubbed harder, then slipped her hand down the front of my jeans.

  No. I don’t want to do this.

  My body didn’t listen to my mind, and I hardened at her touch. Letting go of the plates, I shook the water off my hands, and turned off the tap.

  “Okay.”

  Clara giggled, and I turned around. She stood barefoot in front of me, her head tilted back to look at my face, her lips slightly parted, a slight smile on her face. I leaned forward and kissed her on the cheek.

  She stepped away, grabbed my hand, and pulled me toward the bedroom. I followed after her, then let my hand slip from hers as she reached the bed.

  “One sec,” I said, “I have spinach in my teeth.”

  I walked into the attached bathroom, ran the tap, and rinsed my mouth with water, then leaned on the vanity unit with both hands and stared into the mirror. I had just poisoned my wife and was now about to make love to her. I had to remember not to kiss her on the lips. Exhaling loudly, I bent over, splashed water on my face, then wiped it dry with the hand towel. I took a deep breath, unbuttoned my shirt, and walked out into the bedroom.

  Clara was lying face down on the bed.

  My heart stopped for a moment.

  Was she dead already?

  No, she couldn’t be. It didn’t work that fast. I hurried over to the bed and reached my fin
gers out to the side of her neck. Did she have a pulse? Just before I touched her, I heard a loud snore. I pulled my hand back and breathed a sigh of relief, my heart beating again. She was still alive.

  I buttoned my shirt again and went out to load the dishwasher.

  29

  The symptoms of Death Cap poisoning wouldn’t make themselves known for at least two days, by which time, it would have done considerable damage to her internal organs. So, there was still time.

  I spent the following day thoroughly cleaning the kitchen again. Everything I had cooked with had already been washed by hand, then put through the dishwasher twice. I had even removed the dishwasher filter and given it a good clean with bleach. The council had emptied the wheelie bin that morning. By the time the day was over, I was confident, even if I was eventually suspected, there was nothing in the house that could point to me poisoning her.

  I had even contemplated cleaning my running shoes—maybe they could match the mud to the forest—but I figured that would look suspicious. I ran every morning in the forests, so my shoes had to be dirty.

  It was then a waiting game. I made sure everything I did was like a normal day. I went online, answered emails, had a video call with a potential new client, and worked on a website project that was still unfinished.

  Early in the afternoon, my phone buzzed with a text message. My heart did a little jump, but I told myself it was probably too early. Besides, if something happened, I wouldn’t be getting a text. I picked up the phone and looked at the screen—a text from Clara. Last night was wonderful, followed by three heart emojis.

  I bit my lip and felt the burn of stomach acid in the back of my throat. I stood and paced around the table, then walked to the kitchen and poured myself a glass of water. It was too late to have doubts.

  Draining the glass, I wiped my lips, then went back to the table and picked up the phone. I replied with three heart emojis of my own, then slid the phone back on the table. It was going to be the longest two days of my life.

  The evening was uneventful. Clara came home a little later than normal, but I had dinner ready, and we ate together in front of the television. She chose a new rom-com, but I couldn’t really concentrate, worrying that at any moment, she would start projectile vomiting across the living room.

  By the time the film ended, she was very sleepy, and we headed to bed. Within minutes, she was fast asleep, her head on my shoulder and one arm draped across my chest while I stared at the ceiling.

  By six a.m., I felt as if I had hardly slept. My temples ached with a dull throb, and the last thing I felt like doing was going for a run, but I had to keep to my routine.

  After I had covered three kilometers, though, the endorphins had done their work, and I felt great. The air was crisp, and the clear blue expanse above me heralded a beautiful late autumn sunny day. As I ran along the forest paths, the smell of the damp leaf litter and the early morning bird song made me glad to be alive.

  I ran longer than usual, adding another loop of three kilometers, not wanting the run to end. It was just me, my breath, and the rhythmic sound of my feet pounding the trail.

  Clara was up and dressed, drinking coffee in the kitchen when I finally walked into the house.

  “You’re up early.”

  She walked over and kissed me on the cheek. “Oooh, you’re all sweaty.”

  I shrugged and grinned. “Well, I have just been for a run.”

  She nodded and regarded me over the rim of the coffee cup held to her lips, then took a sip.

  “You’re really enjoying running again, aren’t you.”

  “Yup, I love it.”

  “Good.” She took another sip of coffee, then placed her empty mug in the sink. “It suits you. I... like how you are now.”

  I smiled, not sure what to say.

  “I have to dash.” She nodded toward the French press on the countertop. “There’s still some coffee left. I’ll see you tonight.” She blew me a kiss and walked out. Hearing the front door close, I leaned back against the kitchen counter. The bliss of the run ebbed away, and I felt heavy in the pit of my stomach.

  Outside, the twin exhausts of the Audi barked, then settled into a rumble before I heard it roar up the road.

  Closing my eyes, I thought back to the fights we’d had—the things she’d said, the way she made me feel. As I remembered, I could feel the tension in my muscles, my body temperature increasing, and my heart rate climbing.

  I had done the right thing.

  30

  I couldn’t concentrate on my work. I kept checking my watch and my phone, expecting to receive a call from her office at any moment.

  She would feel intense stomach pain first, then diarrhea and vomiting. I had put the whole mushroom into the pasta, so seizures and delirium would quickly follow those symptoms, and she would slip into a coma as her kidneys and liver failed. Death would follow soon after.

  The phone remained silent.

  Midafternoon, I went back online with a VPN and my browser in incognito mode. I checked the symptoms again, the dosage, and the time frames. Okay, two to three days. There was still time. Perhaps she was more resilient than average.

  I erased my browser history, closed my laptop, and sat back in my chair. All I could do was wait.

  I kept busy—cleaned the house again, washed my car, and did a load of laundry—but the doubts kept growing, and I couldn’t push them away. Eventually, I put on my running gear and headed out to the street. I must have picked the wrong mushroom. I had to check. I followed the route that took me through the forest but couldn’t get into my usual rhythm, my mind racing, and my legs felt like lead weights were attached to my ankles.

  I found the enormous oak tree and stopped with my hands on my hips, waiting until I got my breath back. Looking over my shoulder, I listened carefully for other runners or walkers, but the forest was deathly quiet. All I could hear was my breath and my heart pounding in my chest. I stepped closer to the tree and knelt down. There were still a couple of mushrooms remaining, the larger ones having died back. Leaning closer, I examined them carefully, matching them with the image I had in my mind. I had deleted the photo on my phone the day I cooked the pasta, so now I had only my memory to go by. I checked the color, the size, and the volva at the base. It was all correct. Leaning back on my heels, I stared into the forest. Why wasn’t it working yet? It was supposed to be the most toxic mushroom in the world.

  I heard a shout, then the squeal of brakes, and jumped to my feet as two mountain bikers raced past. They were going too fast to have taken a good look at my face, but there was no sense in hanging around. I checked my watch—time to head home.

  At five-thirty, after changing and showering, I started preparing dinner. There was still no news, so I had to assume she was coming home.

  Clara walked in at six-thirty, looking radiant.

  I smiled, but inside I was frowning. What the hell was going on?

  She had a bottle of wine in her hand, holding it up as she walked into the kitchen and opened the fridge.

  “I got us something special.”

  “What’s the occasion?”

  She closed the fridge door and smiled. “It’s Friday night.” Stepping closer, she put her arms around me and kissed me. Her lips were soft and moist, and I could smell the moisturizer she used on her face. Leaning back, she looked into my eyes. “Wednesday night was fun. I thought we should do it again.”

  “Great.” I smiled, leaned my head forward, and kissed her again. “But don’t fall asleep this time.”

  She laughed, released her arms, and stepped away.

  “I promise. What’s for dinner?”

  “Ratatouille.”

  “Yum. I’ll go freshen up.”

  “You have plenty of time. Another twenty minutes, I think.”

  “Cool.”

  31

  Clara came out of the bedroom dressed in a red silk dressing gown that clung to all the right places. I raised an eyebrow, and
she winked.

  “To save time later.”

  “Really?” I was surprised but hid it, making myself grin widely. Again, I felt a stirring in my groin as she walked toward me, and I cursed the traitorous reactions of my body. I hated her. How was she looking so good? She should be rolling on the floor in agony and vomiting by now.

  “Dinner is ready.”

  “Great. It smells good.” She kissed me on the cheek, then turned toward the fridge. “I’ll get the wine.”

  I took the ratatouille to the table, removed two wine glasses from the drinks cabinet, and sat down as Clara brought the bottle to the table and showed me the label.

  “The same one as the other night. It’s my favorite.”

  I smiled back. “I like it, too. Where did we first have this one?” Clara looked up at the ceiling as she thought, then grinned at me. “The skiing holiday in Trentino.”

  “Ah, yes. That was a great trip.”

  “It was,” Clara agreed as she sat down. “The pasta there!”

  “Ha, I knew you were going to say that.” I grinned despite my nerves. It had been a lovely holiday. “You don’t remember the skiing, only the pasta.”

  “I have simple tastes,” she said as she filled my glass, then hers. Placing the bottle on the table, she picked up her glass, “To great memories.”

  “Cheers.”

  We both took a sip, smiled at each other, then placed our glasses down. I handed her the serving spoon.