The Replacement Wife: A Psychological Thriller

by Britney King

She presses her lips together. “Always one to play the part.”

  “I let her play around in my closet,” Beth mentions. “While we were waiting on you.” This doesn’t make any sense. If she wants Melanie dead, why would she let her play dress up? Beth glances at the time. “I don’t understand why you have a fast car if you insist on driving the speed limit.”

  I guess this means we’re even. But I don’t owe Beth the dignity of an answer, so I don’t give one. After several moments, Mark clears his throat. Subtlety has never been his strong suit. “Speaking of speed—you haven’t seen the new boat, have you?”

  I read his expression. He winks. He hasn’t told his wife what we’ve planned. She doesn’t know my wife has been brought here to die.

  “No,” I say. “I haven’t.”

  “You have to see it.”

  Beth frowns. But she does not look up from her phone. “It’s too late to take the boat out, darling.”

  “Nah.”

  “You’ve been drinking.”

  “You drive.”

  She uses her toes to point at the wine glass on the coffee table. “I’ve had a few glasses myself.”

  “Tom can drive.”

  Beth lets out a heavy sigh. “You’re relentless.”

  “I hate boats. I can’t swim,” Melanie says.

  I know what she is thinking. We’ve had this talk before. Once when we were first together. When our relationship consisted of hotel rooms and time constraints. Her teaching me, me teaching her. Never let them take you to a second location. I give her a look that asks her to trust me. I can see she doesn’t.

  “That’s okay,” Mark tells her. “We won’t be doing much of that.”

  Mark goes over the boat in great detail, which under normal circumstances I would appreciate. Here and now, it feels like overkill. After he’s taken nearly an hour of my time explaining boating terminology at length, all the while he and the rest of the crowd consume another bottle of wine, I am finally allowed to stretch my sea legs. “Stay in the middle,” he instructs, and you’d think I’d never been on a boat before. “We’ll take her over to the cove.”

  Beth and Melanie sit up front. I’m in the driver’s seat. Mark is to my left.

  I start out slow at first. Get my bearings. Then I push faster. Use barriers. Make them guess wrong. I want my happy ending. It is a speedboat, after all. I push it to the limit. Mark smiles. He likes his toys. Melanie’s hair whips in the wind. It’s a lovely night, save for what I’m about to do. She glances back at me. I mouth the word jump. She shakes her head slightly. Mark looks at me. We’re going so fast he has to yell. He gives me the thumbs up. “She’s really something isn’t she?”

  “She is,” I say. I know he’s talking about his plaything. I’m talking about mine.

  “Jump,” I mouth to Melanie. I slow a bit, and then I push the lever all the way down. She doesn’t listen as usual.

  I correct my steering, wavering just a little. Beth glances back. Mark holds his palm up. He wants me to slow down.

  I overcorrect hard to the left. My gut sets.

  “Sorry,” I yell in Mark’s direction. There’s an icy burn in my throat. I didn’t have to speak to know it was there.

  I realize this is it. It’s now or never. I want him to realize what is about to happen. I want him to get a feel for having a dead wife. It’s still revenge, no matter how short-lived.

  His face is contorted as his mind works to slowly piece together his future.

  My eyes dart toward Melanie as though to say, what choice did I have?

  This is for June, I tell myself as I line up the proper angle. And then, all of a sudden, everything is happening in slow motion. Life is on pause, in rewind, before it is in fast forward. Somehow this does not seem like enough for all he’s put me through over the years. I want to dig a hole and put him in it. Alive. I want to set fire to his feet and watch it rise until it engulfs the rest of him. I want to starve a pack of dogs and feed him to them limb by limb. There are a million ways I’d like to kill Mark Jones, and I die a little inside knowing that I have to settle on one that will be quick.

  I take a hard left straight into the side of the cliff.

  I bail, hitting the water hard. Given my speed, I knew I would. I call for Melanie, hoping she managed to make it off in time. Whoever was still on that boat when it hit is no more.

  The boat itself is mostly no more. What’s left is a blur of fiberglass and aluminum twisted around itself. It’s sure to catch fire.

  I swim hard. I call for her, searching the water out in front of me. There’s nothing but darkness.

  After what feels like an eternity, I feel a tug on my arm. My heart leaps into my throat. “Tom!”

  “Melanie?”

  “Oh my God,” she cries. “What were you thinking?”

  “I was thinking I don’t want to die.”

  “I can’t see anything.”

  “We have to swim.”

  “I can’t.”

  “You’re doing fine,” I say, slipping one arm under hers. “Hang on to me.”

  I swim. I kick with everything I’ve got.

  “You have to help,” I tell her. I’m panting hard. I can’t suck in enough air. I smell gasoline. “It could still blow.”

  “The trick,” I tell her, “Is not to panic.”

  The smoke from the boat rolls over us.

  Suddenly, we’re moving faster, and eventually, we find, or rather we hit, a jagged edge. I hoist Melanie up.

  “I have to catch my breath,” I say. “I think my ribs are broken.”

  “How are we going to get out of here?” She does exactly what I’ve advised her not to do. She panics.

  “We’re going to have to swim up the lake for a bit until we find flat land…”

  “You know I can’t swim, Tom. I can’t.”

  “I’ll help you,” I assure her. “We’ll do it together.”

  “It’s pitch black out here.”

  “It’s better this way.”

  I hear Melanie pull herself further onto the ledge. “They’re dead. We killed them.”

  “They had a boating accident,” I correct her. “We weren’t here.”

  Eventually, she says, “That’s really brilliant, Tom. Really brilliant.”

  “What are you doing?” I can’t see anything. “Is there room up there for me?” I don’t know if I have the strength to pull myself up.

  “Thank you for coming for me.” Her voice is far away.

  “My pleasure.” My ribs ache. “Come down. You have to get back in the water.”

  “I can’t.”

  “We have to swim now. We can’t stay here. Someone’s bound to have heard the crash.”

  She doesn’t respond.

  “Melanie?”

  “I can’t, Tom.”

  “I’ll help you.” It hurts to talk. It hurts to move. “Just let me catch my breath.”

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Melanie

  I meant to help Tom. But my feet come up with another plan without saying so. I can’t see my hand in front of my face, but I do my best to search the small area. I’m like a blind person trying to find the light. Just when I’m about to lose hope, my foot finds it first. A rock big enough to do the job. It’s larger than I would have liked, but I guess beggars can’t be choosy. It barely fits in the palm of my hand. “Tom?”

  “Over here,” he says. I can hear him; he’s trying to drag himself up onto the ledge. He doesn’t yet realize I’ve gone somewhere too dark for him to follow. It’s steep, and he’s injured. “Stay there,” I call out to him. Everyone knows water washes away sin.

  “Let me help you,” I offer. My voice reverberates in my ears. It smells like a mixture of death and fuel. It smells like plastic burning. Like faint rotten eggs. If I crane my neck far enough I can just barely see what’s left of the boat around the way. It burns bright orange. But not bright enough to provide any real light from where I stand. I cough, trying to clear my thr
oat. The smoke feels thick and heavy in my lungs. It feels like it’s everywhere. Tom’s labored breathing and the water hitting the rocks has a calming effect.

  He grunts. I feel the weight of the rock in my hand. I bring it over my head. With everything I have in me, I bring it down onto my husband’s skull. I do not want him to suffer because I am weak. I put my back into it, as they say.

  “Say hello to June for me.”

  I lift again and bring it down. It’s like one of those lever things at the carnival when you’re trying to win a teddy bear. But I’m only trying to win my freedom.

  “You should have loved me.”

  I bring the rock down again.

  I feel it collide with bone.

  Tom makes a noise. Like static on the radio. I don’t know how long these things take. My arms feel like jelly.

  I lift the rock as high as I can.

  I bring it down again.

  Tom sounds like he is gurgling. Like a fish tank on recycle.

  Row, row, row your boat.

  I bring the rock down. I don’t like that sound.

  Gently down the stream.

  I bring the rock down. I have to make it stop.

  Merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily.

  I lift higher.

  Life is but a dream.

  I push Tom’s lifeless body into the water and then I swim and I swim. I swim until I find flat land, just like Tom said we would do. Then I walk. I walk and I walk. I let my clothes dry out. I have to get home before someone finds the wreckage. I know that if I walk the road along the lake I will eventually come to Beth and Mark’s gate. I just hadn’t realized how far I would have to go. It feels like a pilgrimage to my future.

  Beth’s shoes are slightly too big and wet; I hardly manage to keep them on. Finally, when I’m worried daylight might break before I find their property, I do. I must have walked six miles at least.

  All the way, I thanked God, or the devil, or the Easter Bunny, that my live stream was silent. I think about what I will tell my followers. Whatever I come up with, I know it will be good. They say everything happens for a reason.

  I kick off Beth’s shoes and climb the steps that lead from the dock up to the house. A motion-sensored light flashes on, and I nearly jump out of my skin. I remember Beth saying she’d turned the security cameras off. I plan to double-check that she wasn’t wrong. Beth is a liar, or rather, was a liar. Just thinking of it now, thinking of her in past tense makes me smile.

  The back door is unlocked, just as it was when we left. That’s the funny thing about the wealthy. They never think anything bad is going to happen to them. I’ll never be like that. Letting your guard down is a fool’s game.

  The lights are still on in the living area, but I don’t bother turning on more. I can see blood has stained Beth’s shoes; I guess water doesn’t wash everything away. I can’t set them down just yet, so I’m forced to carry them around like the bad reminder they are.

  The first thing I do is check the security system, which I am relieved to find has indeed been turned off. So trusting. So stupid.

  In the kitchen I roll out a thick layer of paper towels and set the shoes on them. Under the sink, I find a pair of rubber gloves, which I bet Beth never touched in her life. They’re coming with me. I scrub the wine glasses, and then, bit-by-bit, I work to erase any trace that I was here. I still feel buzzed to see how everything is coming together. Not exactly how I planned, but better.

  I smell like Tom’s blood. Musky and metallic. This must be what freedom and money smell like when you put them together. Just an hour ago, I was someone’s wife. Just an hour ago, I was nearly a drowning victim. Now, I’m a widow. A soon to be rich widow. I’ll never know why they didn’t drown me on that dock, or more simply, just blow my brains out. I’ll never know why they chose a joyride in the dark instead. Tom always said you can’t explain illogical acts with reason. I chose well with him. It’s funny how things work out in the end. I’m glad he was such a cheapskate. More for me now. The long game, I think it’s called. I really shouldn’t forget. All that worry, and over what? I make a mental note for next time.

  At last, I shower, and then I have to double and triple check everything. I feel like Tom would be proud. I can’t take the risk of making even a minor mistake. I am not Goldilocks and these are not the three bears. This is real life, and mistakes will get you caught.

  When I’m all fresh and clean, I choose something from Beth’s closet. I consider taking something as a memento, something other than the Chanel dress I slip into. But I don’t want to be tied in any way to this house or to this night, and as much as I know it will kill me to discard the vintage dress I’ve selected when the time comes, I know I will be better for it in the end.

  It’s just a dress. I will have enough money to buy my own Chanel and my own lake house. In fact, I will have something better. I will have things no one can take away. Not my parents, not my husband, no one. I will have the power and the influence I’ve always wanted. God knows, I’ve earned it.

  When everything is neat and tidy, scoured clean, brushed of evidence—just as they would have wanted it—I walk to the nearest gas station, which is another five miles away. From there I call Adam.

  “I can’t pick you up,” he informs me.

  “Well, what do you expect me to do? My phone is in your trunk. I don’t have any money. And I wouldn’t be in this situation if it weren’t for you.”

  “Yes you would.”

  “You kidnapped me!”

  “I had to,” he says.

  “I was terrified. I never saw your face. Jesus, I uploaded what I thought were my final moments to Instalook…I had no idea it was you behind this. Your shenanigans—your lack of communication— it could have ruined everything.”

  There’s a long silence neither of us rushes to fill.

  “Adam?”

  “Hold on,” he sighs before another layer of silence blankets the conversation, smothering the words we’re both thinking but won’t say.

  When he comes back on the line, he gives me a credit card number. “You’ll have to call a ride-share. I can’t leave now.”

  I don’t have anything to write it down. He doesn’t hide his annoyance when I mention this. “Four numbers, four times. Surely, you can manage sixteen digits.”

  I exhale into the receiver.

  Adam spits the numbers out once again.

  This time, I do remember. Tom would be proud. They will come in handy.

  “It’s the church card,” he tells me. Just in case I get any ideas.

  Chapter Thirty

  Melanie

  When you rule something out, you limit your focus. Thankfully, I’m smarter than that. But I am disappointed. To say the least. I’m particularly pissed Adam expected me to use that credit card. Surely, he would have known that to do so would have been too close for comfort. He had to have understood it would’ve linked me to the scene. I guess I shouldn’t be too surprised. This wasn’t the first time he betrayed me. Nor was it likely to be the last. If only Adam hadn’t failed the test. I really wanted to believe in him.

  Everyone slips up at some point

  Just not me. When the driver delivered me to my house, I simply ran in and grabbed cash. I refuse to have my every movement tracked and traced. I won’t be tied to that lake house in any way.

  Afterward, I was so tired that I dropped to Tom’s side of the bed and fell fast asleep. I dreamed that I woke up and my husband was downstairs making bacon and eggs. Only in my dream, my husband wasn’t Tom. Then the doorbell rings and my stomach sinks. In my dream, I realize I am going to live the same day, thousands of times, a lifetime of times, unless something is done.

  Unfortunately, sometimes the dream world and real life collide because I am ripped from my dream to find the doorbell really is ringing, and it is because there are cops at my door. This is never a pleasant situation to wake to.

  “Are you Melanie Anderson?” they ask when I open the door.
Pretty standard stuff.

  I fold my arms over my chest. “I am.”

  “I’m afraid there’s been an accident involving your husband.”

  I blink rapidly. Once. Twice. Three times.

  “What kind of accident?”

  The woman cop leans forward as though she’s rehearsed her lines a dozen times. “I’m sorry to tell you your husband didn’t make it, Mrs. Anderson.”

  I drop to my knees. I try to cry, I really give it my best effort. But nothing comes. She’s supposed to use the word dead. Or some form of it. I read that once. I blink again, when I look up at them. Maybe if I hear the word, it will stir something. “Is he dead?”

  They glance at one another. “Is there someone we can call?”

  I don’t answer. There is someone, yes. But I can’t tell them. It’s not wise to start there.

  “Mrs. Anderson?”

  “Beth.”

  “Beth?”

  “My best friend.”

  Again, they look at each other.

  Then they break the news about the Joneses. They ask me questions. More routine stuff. Did I know them to be drinkers? Did I know they planned to go boating? Did they often take the boat out at night?

  “Yes,” I say to all of it. Tom told me he was stopping by after work to pick up some paperwork. He was supposed to come straight home afterward. I fell asleep and didn’t realize he hadn’t.

  They follow me into the kitchen. Flashes of the way things were come at me from the side, like ambushes. Or at least I want them to. I have to evoke some sort of emotion, otherwise eyebrows might be raised. Tom’s mug is there by the coffee pot as though it’s waiting to be filled. The ordinary, a reminder, poking at me. The angle just right. A knife in the back. The sight of it knocks the wind out of me. Tears fall, I lie, and in some ways, things haven’t changed that much.

  The officers explain that they found the wreckage just after daylight, when a fishing boat saw smoke. Is there someone that could identify the body?

  I say I want to do it.

  They advise this isn’t a good idea. Before I know it I am sobbing—wailing, to be exact. I’m just so thankful to be out from under the life sentence I’d agreed to at the altar.