As Long as We Both Shall Live

by JoAnn Chaney

  Then she waited. Not that she had to wait for long.

  “Matt?” she screamed and held the rope tight against her face so the fibers scratched. Closed her eyes and took a deep breath. It was all or nothing, make it count. “No! Please, don’t!”

  And then the rope snapped, made a sound like a whip cracking. She’d thought the tension in her backup line was perfect, enough to send her down only a few feet before catching her, but she’d miscalculated and went plunging through the open air for a dozen feet before it went taut, catching her weight. She screamed in surprise and fear, and that was probably for the best—the scream she’d been practicing for the fall wouldn’t have been quite the same—and the sudden drop didn’t just send her down, it sent her swinging out in an arc, first away from the cliff and then toward it, and she rammed into the rock wall at an awful speed. It was her elbow that took the brunt of the hit, the very point of the bone against the stone, and it shattered on impact, sending a jolt of pain through her entire body. If pain had a color it was silver, like lightning behind her closed eyelids. That long flash of agony reminded her of other times—that final push when she was giving birth to each of the girls and the sense of strange emptiness once they’d left her body; the throbbing ache of a tooth that’d needed a root canal and kept her up several nights before she’d gone to the dentist; the memory of standing on the steps outside the little rental house in Madison and hearing Matt laughing with another woman. It was all the same pain in that moment, pieced together in the giant movie reel that served as memory.

  She almost blacked out then, dangling from the underside of the cliff, and wouldn’t that have been hilarious? If she’d lost consciousness she certainly would’ve lost her grip on the rope and gone hurtling down to the ground or into the river, dead despite all her plans. But she didn’t black out, things only went grayish and mushy around the edges and she managed to hang on. Barely, but barely was all she needed. She turned her face into the crook of her shoulder and took a deep breath, tried to calm her racing heart and keep from weeping in agony. This wasn’t what she’d planned, this wasn’t how it was supposed to go—but when did anything ever go perfectly? It was the story of her life, improvising as things came up.

  She’d thought that once she’d gone over the side and Matt thought she was gone, she’d be able to take her time and lower herself to the ground below. It would be hours before anyone could make it down to the cliff base, especially once the sun set, and she’d hike to the supplies she’d hidden several miles away, start a fire, and sleep well under the stars. Then she’d wake early the next morning and keep moving away from the cliff and river. It would take a few days to get to Estes on foot, but once she got there, to the car she’d bought and parked in a spot downtown, she’d be home free. She’d probably go west. California, maybe. She’d driven west to get to Denver from Madison, and maybe it was time to keep going.

  But now, things had changed. The pain in her arm had dulled to a low scream, but the thought of trying to get it working to lower herself down the rope another seventy or so feet was enough to make her light-headed. And days of hiking over uneven ground as she clutched her bum arm to her chest? God, no. This whole plan was going to be tough enough with both her arms functional, and now—well, how bad was this whole thing going to be now?

  But she couldn’t think any further ahead than right now, otherwise she was setting herself up for failure. She concentrated on the rope looped around her good arm and the sharp wind against her cheeks and the flat, tinny smell of the water below. Deep breath. In through the nose, out through the mouth. She thought there was a good chance she might die anyway, that she wouldn’t be able to lower herself with one arm and she’d end up falling to her death, smashing her head open on the rocks, and all of it would be for nothing.

  Marie was still hanging there, considering her situation, when two things launched over the side of the cliff. She recognized the shapes, even in the dark. It was the rope and her pack of supplies. They both came hurtling down and went right into the river, sucked under the waves. She didn’t care about the rope, but the loss of her backpack hurt. There were things in there she could’ve used. She moaned and closed her eyes, pressed her forehead against her own rope so hard it was surely leaving a mark. There were bottles of water in that pack, and squeeze tubes of applesauce that would’ve been heaven on her raw throat. No use thinking about it now, though. The bag was long gone.

  Getting rid of the evidence, that’s what Matt was doing. Cleaning up anything that might point to his guilt. Make it look like an accidental fall. Just as they planned.

  She waited, her good arm trembling from the strain of holding herself in place and the other shrieking in pain. She wasn’t sure what she was waiting for until she heard it.

  His laugh. It’s what had started this entire mess so many years ago, and here it was again. A pleased, low burbling sound that seemed to come right out of his gut, like a baby’s laugh, and now he was laughing because he thought she was dead, that he was finally rid of her.

  That laugh gave her strength, fed the hate-beast in her belly. Then she knew she wouldn’t die. She wouldn’t allow it. It took a long time—she never knew how long, didn’t even want to know—but she managed to slide down the rope bit by bit, until the ground was only a few feet below, and then she let go. She landed on her feet, barely, but her knees gave out beneath her at the jolt of pain that shot up her arm—the pain had been silver but was now black, thick and choking—and she went facedown in the gravel. There were a few uncertain moments when Marie didn’t move at all, but she finally struggled to sit up. There was blood on her face and her one arm was twisted and hanging at a strange angle, and at first glance she looked like a crazy person. But if you’d managed to get a good look at her eyes, you’d see they were calm and clear and sane. Moving slowly and carefully, Marie stood up. She’d double-looped the rope so she was able to pull it down with a hard tug, and after it fell into a coil at her feet she tossed it into the river. Get rid of the evidence. The sun had dropped low enough that she couldn’t see very much, so she shuffled through the dirt where she’d landed, hoping to scatter anything she might’ve dropped or left behind, and then moved on. She had so much to do, and time would be tight. But it was all going to happen.

  Because she didn’t plan on ever letting her husband laugh like that again.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX

  September 7, 2018

  “Matt?” she’d said, using that breathy, high-pitched voice she knew he hated so much. He’d once said he’d like to choke her when she used that voice, so she used it now, meaning to get him riled up. After twenty-four years of marriage you learned what buttons to push. “Didn’t I say you needed some excitement in your life?”

  It’d taken her two days to hike out of the park and get to the car in Estes, and instead of driving off into the sunset like she planned she rented a cheap motel room outside of town. Once she got a full night’s sleep and a meal in her stomach and bought a sling for her arm from the drugstore and started to feel somewhat normal, she drove back out to the national park and watched some of the search. It was an all-around bad idea—someone could’ve recognized her—but she went anyway. She couldn’t stay away. So it was true what was said about criminals, she thought grimly. They always returned to the scene of the crime.

  So she put on a baggy old sweatshirt and pulled a weathered ball cap low over her eyes and watched as a team floated slowly along in a boat, peering over the side, and others stood at the shore, poking and prodding the river bottom. There were plenty of others there, a crowd drawn out by the gruesome proceedings, and no one gave her a second look. They were searching for a dead woman, after all. Not a living, breathing one. Marie overheard snippets of conversation from those who’d watched the news and seen her photo and commented about how terrible it was, what a silly waste, a woman in her prime falling to her death while trying to take a selfie, but that was life these days, wasn’t it?

  It w
as a little like attending her own funeral.

  She even saw Matt, standing beside the river with his hands in his pockets, not bothering to pretend to be helping. She overheard whispers that he hadn’t spent much time helping with the search, but only came out to make an appearance. But that was Matt for you—he’d always been good about putting on a show.

  He looked glum, as a man who has lost his wife should. He was playing his part, at least. The girls hadn’t come with him—that much she regretted, although it would’ve put her at risk. She would’ve liked to see her daughters one more time, but they were grown and had their own lives, and seemed more like strangers than the babies she’d had so long ago. Matt looked away from the river and she considered pitching a rock at his face, but turned around and left instead.

  She went back to the motel and got comfortable and kept an eye on the local news. For a few days everything was quiet, and then she saw the report of the woman’s body pulled out of the river about ten miles downstream as soon as it broke. The cops thought it was her, and that’d made her laugh hard.

  “Where the fuck are you?” Matt hissed over the phone.

  “Oh, I’m sure you’d like to know,” she said airily. Making that phone call she felt more like her old self than she had in days, and her confidence had returned. She knew exactly where she stood now, and the view was a good one. “But don’t worry, dear husband. You’ll be happy to know I’m perfectly safe.”

  “Where are you?” he asked again.

  “That’s for me to know and for you to never know,” she said. “Listen, I’ve been keeping an eye on the news, and I saw a woman has been pulled out of the river. They’re saying it’s me, but since I’m talking to you right now, I’m guessing they’re wrong.”

  “Shut up.”

  “I also have a guess about who that woman is,” she said. “Is it your girlfriend, Matt? Is it Riley?”

  Silence from the other end, but she could hear his breathing, light and quick.

  “So I was right!” Marie crowed laughter. “Tell me, did you enjoy killing her? Riley didn’t even see it coming, did she? She went out thinking you were actually in love with her, isn’t that right? How humane of you. And now that I think about it, didn’t you use my car right before we went to Estes? Said you’d get it detailed and have the oil changed—but you really needed it to haul her body in, didn’t you? And if the cops found her blood in my trunk—well, I’d automatically look guilty.”

  “I wish I’d had the chance to bash your skull in,” Matt said. His voice was thick with rage. “I wish I could’ve killed you instead of her. But I had to do it. Prove to everyone what a jealous, crazy wife you are. Wait till I see you again. I’m going to choke the life right out you.”

  “Oh, my thighs are aquiver with anticipation,” she said. She shifted the sling that was holding her arm in place—it cut into her shoulder in the worst way, but it was the best available until she could see a doctor.

  “You bitch.”

  “Is that really the worst thing you can call me?” she asked. “I hope you think of something better before we see each other again. I’ve been spending plenty of time out in the park, you know. Did you know I saw you there last week, with that search team?”

  “You were there?”

  “Of course I was. Close enough I could’ve spit on you. Haven’t I told you not to wear those cargo pants? They make you look like a fat old grandpa, but if that’s the look you’re going for these days—well, you’re on the right track.”

  And then she hung up. Because she knew there was nothing that bothered Matt more than not getting the last word. They were similar in that respect, at least.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN

  September 24, 2018

  How did she do it? How did she get away with it? That’s what Matt wanted to know, how Marie managed to live. But the police had managed to cut him completely out of everything, so much that he actually found out he was no longer being considered a suspect through Twitter. The Denver PD had released a written statement to local news outlets saying any charges against him would be dropped, that he was innocent of any wrongdoing, and it was all over his feed. He read the statement and then quickly put his phone on the table, facedown, like he was scared of it. And maybe he was, a little. Scared and excited, because it was over. He’d told the detectives everything—well, some of it—and it’d been enough to keep him out of prison. He’d given them enough of the truth to make himself look innocent. It couldn’t have gone better, he thought. Marie? Gone. Riley, who’d started to get so clingy and needy, who’d been talking weddings and babies every time he saw her? Adiós. It was over.

  Or was it?

  He was sitting up in bed that same night, watching one of the home renovation shows that seemed to be everywhere these days. He wasn’t really watching it, but instead wondering if Marie had seen the statement from the police about his innocence. That was his only regret—he missed the opportunity to see his wife’s face when she realized she’d lost. Marie was a sore loser—a sore winner, too, she’d never really learned to play nice with others—and he imagined the fit she’d throw when she saw the news. And what could she do about it?

  Not a damn thing. His lawyer said he was safe. That even if Marie came forward tomorrow and told her side of things, she couldn’t talk her way out of trouble. It was in her best interest to stay away. And Matt had stuck around, he’d stayed calm, he’d cooperated with the police—those things counted, the lawyer said. Makes you look like a good guy. Makes you look innocent. A helpless man held virtually hostage for over twenty years by a controlling woman. It’ll make one helluva movie of the week, he said.

  Matt chuckled to himself and flipped back the blankets, padded downstairs and got himself some dessert. Vanilla ice cream with hot caramel drizzled over the top, and he’d be able to eat it without suffering through all the dark looks and comments from Marie. He’d rediscovered all kinds of little pleasures like that over the last week: not having to hide out in the bathroom to get some alone time; sleeping in the center of the bed without having to share; being able to throw trash right into the can without getting a lecture about recycling. He came back upstairs with the bowl, humming as he climbed back into bed. Life was good. It would be better, now.

  He’d left his phone on the bed when he went downstairs, and when he got settled back down and ready to dive into his ice cream, he noticed he’d missed a call from an unknown number. And there was a new voice mail.

  His hands were shaking.

  It was Marie who’d called, somehow he knew it before he even looked. He’d been thinking about her and she’d known, she’d always seemed to know what he was thinking, and it didn’t matter that she wasn’t here with him. She could be in a different house, in a different country, on an entirely different planet and she’d know. A marriage connects people, for better or worse, forever. People say diamonds are forever, but marriage is, too. Forever and ever, until the bitter end.

  He thought about taking his cell phone and dropping it in the toilet and flushing the damn thing down, just so he couldn’t listen to that voice mail. Or opening up the window and tossing it out onto the street. But he didn’t. He couldn’t. Matt Evans had never been very good at denying himself, and it wasn’t as if he was going to turn over a new leaf now.

  So he listened to the voice mail. He didn’t have any other choice. He listened to it once, and then again. And again, countless times. Then he turned off the TV and left his uneaten ice cream on the bathroom counter and went to bed. He may have gone to sleep, or he may have stayed up all night, but either way he was up early the next morning. Tumbled some sunscreen and water bottles and other things into a backpack and got in his car. He drove west, toward the mountains.

  And about a half mile behind him, far enough back that Matt never noticed, was a brown Chrysler.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT

  “Do you really think you’ve gotten away with anything?” Marie’s message had said. She was usi
ng that voice again, the one he hated so much, high-pitched and mocking. “Well, I left them a little surprise at the bottom of the cliff that’ll make them think twice about their decision to let you go. Just thought I’d give you a heads-up, in case you wanted to pack a bag and make a run for it. Do you think a pretty guy like you will be popular in prison, Matt?”

  Marie had laughed then, a tinkling laugh that wasn’t like any sound he’d ever heard her make. It wasn’t the laugh that pissed him off so bad, but the confidence in her voice. The idea that this woman, his wife, had big enough balls to call and taunt him, to sound so goddamn sure of herself when she should be running, scared and frustrated, out of options. Instead, she was laughing. She was fucking laughing, and he didn’t like that one bit.

  She didn’t have any surprise for the police, he knew. He’d covered all his bases. It was a trap, of course. She was trying to get him out there again, lure him out into the open. It was a bad idea to go, but what else was there? At least if he went, it would mean an end to things. If he didn’t, he knew Marie wouldn’t just shrug her shoulders, disappear, and move on. No, he’d spend the rest of his life wondering when Marie was going to appear again to make his life hell. Marie was the terrible heart beating under the floorboard; the bloodstains that would never wash off his hands; the bad smell that just wouldn’t go away.

  The wife who wouldn’t die.

  It had to end. His wife had left his life once and had come back, and he couldn’t stand to have it happen again. He had to finish it.

  Or maybe he didn’t have a choice. When Marie played her pipe he came dancing, he’d follow her wherever.

  He had a knife in his backpack. The longest, sharpest one they had in their kitchen. It wouldn’t be the easiest way to end things, but it would work.