HER: A Psychological Thriller

by Britney King

  “I’m the friend of a friend.”

  He glances toward the front of the funeral home. “Are you coming by the house?”

  “Me.” A pause. Then, I shake my head and tell him decisively, “no.”

  “That’s too bad.”

  “I don’t like funerals,” I say, because—nerves.

  “There’s food.”

  “That I do like.”

  He laughs. It’s a deep and genuine laugh, and I get the sense that most things about him are that way, and that he’s the kind of guy you shouldn’t walk away from. You should run.

  Eventually, Ann joins us. “Chet,” I say. “This is Ann.”

  “It’s a pleasure,” he says. They shake hands. I don’t know if he knows who Ann Banks is. If he does, he doesn’t say, and his expression gives nothing away.

  “So, you’re really not coming by the house?”

  I shake my head. He looks from me to Ann and back. She doesn’t notice. She’s scrolling her phone. Ann doesn’t care for Chet, and she isn’t very good at hiding it. When I introduced them, she shook his hand with the kind of look in her eye that said she planned to tell me all about it later.

  Meanwhile, he seems oblivious. Like he couldn’t care less about beating a dead horse. He doesn’t know her, clearly. “How will I see you again?”

  “I’m married,” I say. “And this is a small town.”

  “Yeah, well,” he says. “Exactly—and I’m down a friend.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  SADIE

  The holidays draw nearer, and Ann gains in popularity. Not just among her social following, but also among women in our neighborhood. She’s the new kid on the block and everyone is interested in something new. Myself included.

  Judging by the comings and goings at her house, it’s only a matter of time before she doesn’t need me anymore. I know I can’t let that happen. It didn’t turn out well for the guy at the grocery store—or the caterer—or the guy who hung her Christmas lights.

  Speaking of, her Christmas party is the first time I see her in a new light. While most of the homes on Penny Lane have undergone substantial renovations, the Bankses’ was torn down completely and rebuilt from the ground up. Ann wanted that. If she had to downsize, she said—if she had to move to the middle of nowhere—she might as well design the place the way she wanted.

  What she wanted, she said, was something that blended fine on Penny Lane but was just unique enough that it stuck out.

  Looking at it now, it’s obvious she was successful in her aspirations. She lives in a breathtaking Mediterranean-style home, one of the largest on our street. The kind of place everyone gravitates toward. Myself included.

  “Thank God you’re here,” Ann tells me as she swings open the door. Donning a black sweater dress, which only makes her red hair stand out more, and thigh high boots, she looks amazing. She looks like fire. She looks exactly like what she is—something that will burn you if you get too close but is just warm enough that you can’t help yourself.

  Ann has minimal curves, but she doesn’t let that stop her. She accentuates her straight lines and her hard edges with a matching personality. I recall Ethan mentioning once, after she and Paul had stopped by the lane to check on the renovations, that she has the look of a super model that has aged well. Lean and well preserved. She told us at her dinner party that where she came from, that was important. No one asked what she meant. We all made our own assumptions. Or at least I did.

  “You look great,” I say, which is a truth we both know. I assume her dress is cashmere. It looks precisely like that brand of perfect. She seems to read my mind because she says, “Go ahead and touch it,” and I learn I’m right. As my fingertips brush against the fabric, my eyes close involuntarily. Instantly, I am transported to another time and another place.

  “Isn’t it just the softest thing you’ve ever felt?”

  “Yes,” I lie. But when I open my eyes Ann has her gaze fixed on mine with such intensity that I add, “Ethan, he has soft, curly hair. It feels a bit like that.”

  “Hmmm. I have an idea for you.” She takes me by the elbow and hurls me through the door. It’s a portal into her world where all is perfect and right and husbands who leave always come back.

  I stumble though the entryway, mostly because I’m not used to wearing heels. She takes notice, which gives me the chance to get my bearings. Her eyes narrow as she gives me the once-over. “Nice dress.”

  I don’t think she really means it about the dress, which is disappointing because the tag is jabbing me between the shoulder blades, an ever-present reminder that it has to go back where it came from. “You think so?”

  “I mean, it’s not my taste, but I will say this: if your husband sees you looking like that, he’ll regret his decision and come running back in a heartbeat.”

  “Maybe.”

  “Here,” she says, pulling out her phone. She leans in close and snaps a selfie. Her perfume smells nice. It’s imported from France, she tells me, by which I know she means it’s out of my budget. “Let’s tilt the odds in our favor.”

  Her eyes carefully scan the photo on her screen. She isn’t pleased. With one hand she drops the phone to her side and with the other she pushes my back against the wall. I start to resist but then she presses a finger against my lips and I stop. I let go long enough to search her face, and she lets her finger drop too. Slowly. Too slowly. I have no idea what she’s up to, or what’s gotten into her, but I can think of worse ways to die.

  While I’m wondering what I said, what I’ve done, what I’m about to do, she busies herself tangling her fist in my hair. Next thing I know, she is parting my mouth open with her tongue, and she is lingering there. I don’t know how long a moment can last. Time is irrelevant. Meaningless. Until it isn’t. Because quickly—too quickly—she pulls away, and then it’s over. A void remains where her lips have been. No one has kissed me like that. Not ever.

  Her back rests against the wall beside me; she’s breathless. Finally, she lets out a long satisfied sigh, leans in close, tilts her head, and snaps another photo. She holds it up for me to see. “Perfect.”

  “Please don’t post that.”

  Ann glances at the screen and then over at me and back. “Why not? It’s a great photo. You see? You have to feel love before you can have love. Desire is the same. The look on your face…Sadie. That’s what men want.”

  I want to ask if that’s what she wants. I say the next most stupid thing instead. “Ethan isn’t on social media.”

  “Oh, Sadie,” she chides. “This isn’t about social media. This is about revenge.”

  I shrug. Maybe she’s right. Maybe Ethan will see it. Maybe he’ll get really lonely and Google me, and there it will be. Me in my new life. Me with my new friends. Not the wife he remembers. Better.

  And if not, well, there’s always the off chance he’ll hear the news secondhand. We still have some mutual friends from college, if that’s what you call the people you’re connected with on social media but never actually speak to.

  “Don’t worry,” Ann says. “If that doesn’t do it, there’s always the neighborhood app.”

  I smile because she makes a good point. Ethan used to check that religiously when we moved here.

  “He’ll see it,” she assures me.

  I bite my lip, and then I force a smile. Ethan never cared much for social media but maybe that changed. A lot of things had changed.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  SADIE

  My key isn’t even halfway in the lock when I realize something is very, very wrong. My heart hitches in my throat. There’s movement inside. It suddenly dawns on me that the porch is dark, and I know for sure I left the light on.

  Slowly, I pull the key from the lock. Every fiber of my being is telling me to turn and run. But then, I hear music coming from inside, and I realize I’m probably overreacting. It’s probably just Ethan, but I’m in no mood for his games. We’re playing on my terms now. />
  As I retreat, I consider going back to the party, and what I’ll say when I do. I’m afraid to go home. Someone’s in my house. It could be my husband.

  I’m halfway up the walk when the door suddenly flings open. Just inside, there’s the outline of a man. I can see that he’s holding something in his hand, although I can’t make out what that thing is. Partially because I’m blinded by the light behind him but, also, because I’ve taken off in full sprint.

  I had no idea I could run so fast. Unfortunately, it isn’t fast enough. I don’t even make it to the end of the driveway before I feel his fingertips grasping at my shoulder. Winded, and practically caught, I do the thing that makes least amount of sense, I turn and take a swing at him.

  He ducks.

  I take another swing but he evades it just the same. “Sadie!”

  I can’t place the voice.

  “Sadie, stop!”

  Finally, under the glow of the street lamp, I get a look at his face. “You!”

  “Sadie,” he says through bated breath.

  “Chet?”

  “Jesus,” he pants. “Why’d you run?”

  I fold, bracing my palms on my knees. “Why are you chasing me?”

  “I heard you fumbling with the lock. I bolted the deadbolt just so I wouldn’t scare you—in case you weren’t expecting me. Although, I was told you would be.”

  I stand and meet him face to face. “What are you doing in my house?”

  His brow furrows. “Your husband hired me to paint.”

  “He what?”

  “Well, actually he hired Darryl. But…you know how that turned out.”

  I mull over what he’s said. Maybe Ethan told me he’d hired someone and maybe he hadn’t. I’m pretty sure he hadn’t. “Come see,” he says. “I’m sorry I scared you.”

  My living room is chaos. Paint fumes fill my house, which Chet seems to think he can cover up by playing classical music. All of my furniture has been covered and moved to one side of the living room. Nothing is as I left it or as it’s supposed to be.

  “You look nice,” Chet tells me.

  I look at him as though he’s lost his mind and I breathe in hard in an attempt to keep the tears at bay. I feel them stinging the back of my throat, building. Until suddenly they’re out and I’m sobbing and I can’t stop. I press the heels of my hands against my eye sockets but it makes little difference. Giant chest-heaving sobs pull me under. “I don’t understand,” I manage to choke out. “It wasn’t supposed to go this way.”

  Chet sighs, obviously at a loss for words. He doesn’t get it. His presence is proof. My life is over. I’m going to be homeless soon. The thought of standing on a street corner does something inside. It’s like a dam breaks and the floodgates have opened and God help anyone downstream.

  Finally, I sink to the floor. Not dramatically or anything. Just in a way that points out there is nowhere else to sit. I don’t notice when he comes to my aid. All I know is I feel him kneel beside me. “Are you okay?”

  He pats my back like one might a child, rubbing in small circles the way my mother used to do. It only makes me cry harder. “Can I get you something?”

  I shake my head. “This was not how it’s supposed to go.”

  “It’s a small town,” he whispers. “It was inevitable.”

  I look up at him, confusion playing across my face. “What was?”

  “Me seeing you again.”

  I don’t offer a response. He forces a handkerchief into my hand. It smells like aftershave and sweat and something else…the earth, maybe. Whatever it is, it reminds me of the dirt I used to play in with my mother, while she worked in her clients’ flowerbeds. She did the planting. I did the digging.

  Chet stands and gives me space. I cry harder, thinking of those days. I can’t recall how long it has been since I let myself go there. But I go there now, picturing my mother, tending someone else’s flowers, someone else’s children, someone else’s husband. I used to wonder if she wanted those things to be hers.

  Now, I know she did.

  Suddenly, I am aware of Chet’s movement, of his presence, of his breath. For several moments, he just stands there with his hands on his hips as though he is contemplating what to do about the mess he’s found himself in. At some point I feel him move away. Eventually, he reaches for my hand and I see that he has uncovered the sofa. He motions for me to take a seat. “I can come back later,” he tells me. “If you prefer.”

  “It’s fine,” I manage. “So Ethan hired you to paint.” It’s not really a question, more like a realization. Chet misses that.

  “Not just paint.” He lists off the projects he is contracted to complete.

  I nod and with it comes a long and heavy sigh. So my husband is going to sell the house. Somehow I knew this was coming.

  But the finality of it lands hard. Something breaks loose inside of me, and the tears find their way back to the surface.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  SADIE

  Chet comes back the next day. And the next after that. He paints the living room. He finishes. He starts on the bedrooms. He finishes those too. He works fast. Too fast.

  He does his best to stay out of my way. He tries to be polite. Still, his mere presence makes me furious. It’s amazing how fast it is to go from a slight dislike to strong hatred. This doesn’t go unnoticed by him. We have entire conversations with our eyes. I guess there’s some part of you who knows, just knows, when someone is going to upend your life. When someone is upending your life.

  It doesn't help that my disdain seems to amuse him more than anything, which, of course, only infuriates me more. He laughs when I ask him to park his work truck around the corner. He goes so far as to throw his head back in the process. “Sweetheart,” he says. “If you’re worried about what the neighbors think at this stage in your life, you’ve got bigger problems than you think.”

  I tell him to fuck off.

  “The kitchen is next,” he replies, moving into my space, leaning too close, whispering into my ear. “A complete remodel, I hear.”

  “That makes one of us,” I say, moving away. I sort the mail while he stands at the sink, washing his brushes. I catch my mind wandering. I catch myself watching his hands. I hate his hands. I hate his broad shoulders and his crooked smile and his unending enthusiasm about the way my life is unfolding. His presence has worn grooves in my understanding. Ethan is easing me into the idea of losing him, just like my mother did.

  Chet senses me watching him. He glances up and then over at me. It’s nothing out of the ordinary. He’s used to me watching him. He seems to read my expression and he smiles wryly. “Come on. Tell me you at least like the color.”

  “Does it matter?”

  “It does to me.” The sincerity in his voice sounds like poison. And yet, it makes me take a second look. I’m not expecting him to appear as genuine as he does. It forces me to reassess what I’m dealing with. It forces me to really look at him—maybe for the first time.

  I gather he’s in his late forties, not that I’ve ever been good at guessing that sort of thing. He’s seen a day or two in the sun, for sure, which makes it hard to tell. At any rate, he’s fit, very fit, and although his face is moderately symmetrical, it’s not enough to classify him as handsome. Nevertheless, he has that blue-collar, hardworking look going for him. That, combined with his height, broad shoulders, and a strong jaw—well, I’d be willing to bet he does all right.

  “Did you always want to be a carpenter?”

  “Always,” he says. “But my parents had other plans. They wanted me to go into banking. Like my old man. So I did for a while.”

  “Didn’t take?” I ask.

  He shakes his head. “Most things that aren’t meant to be don’t.”

  THAT EVENING CHET asks if it’s okay if he stays late to work on the grout. The cabinets have been delayed coming in and he tells me it’s going to cost him time. For him, time is money. I thank God for small favors.
/>   But I say yes, because it beats spending the evening alone. I cook Chicken Marsala. Partly because it’s Ethan’s favorite and I hope it gets back to him somehow. Also, I’m hungry, and I want to slow Chet’s progress by being in his way the same as he’s in mine.

  It works, apparently. A little Italian food paired with two glasses of wine, a fire, and well…the next thing I know, Chet is stripping me out of my good underwear, and I am letting him.

  This isn’t a good idea, I’m thinking, as his hand slides up my shirt. I know it isn’t a good idea when he shoves my panties aside and gets to know the other, more enjoyable parts of me. But by the time he lays me back onto the couch and the plastic that covers it sticks to my back as he explores my good side with his tongue, I give absolutely zero fucks. I convince myself there’s no such thing as a bad idea, and anyway, I can’t help myself. Not even if I wanted to. How else am I supposed to get rid of him?

  My moves are calculated. Same as him, it seems. There’s no surer way to get fired than fucking the wife of the man who hired you to fix his house, no matter how bad their relationship might be. Plus, the longer I delay renovations, the longer I have a home. And the longer I have a home, the longer I have a shot at keeping my marriage.

  So we fuck. We laugh. We keep it light. We tiptoe around anything of substance. Besides food. I’m considerate enough to feed him before he fucks me. Men seem to like that. Eventually, when we both run out of fucks to give, Chet leaves. I intentionally don’t ask him to stay the night. That would be far too convenient.

  And yet, it doesn’t stop me from meeting him at the door the following morning wearing a smile and not much else. “I want you to fuck me like you did last night,” I say to him. It doesn’t even sound like me, even as the words topple out of my mouth. It sounds like something Ann would say, which only widens my smile and apparently, his too.