Until Death Do Us Part

Peering through the thin crack, she could see Brody pacing back and forth through the barnyard, his fancy dress shoes kicking up dust in the stale August heat. The cicadas drummed out a staccato beat, keeping rhythm with his furious footsteps.

“C’mon out, Cassie. Look, babe, I’m not even mad. I just want to talk.”

Sure he did.

She pulled her eyes away from the crack, watching the dust motes float lazily in the sliver of sunlight that shone through. So many holes in this barn. Funny, now, to think the many outbuildings was how the real estate agent had sold them on the place.

“More than a dozen barns, workshops and sheds. You could play hide and seek all day and never find each other.”

She’d laughed at the joke, never dreaming the words were prophetic.

They’d had big plans for the place. An art studio. Yoga classes. A few chickens and goats. Heck, why not goat yoga? Maybe even chicken yoga!

But the place had turned out to be a money pit. They were too remote. No one came to her classes. They’d struggled for nearly a year now, since they’d sunk their joint life savings into the place and watched it bleed out.

Brody was changing tactics now, appealing to her need to know why.

“Sweetie, just come out and I’ll explain. Trust me, it’s not as bad as it looks.”

But it was exactly as bad as it looked. There was no way around it. The details were all there, all in his little black book.

Names.

Dates.

Where they worked.

How they died.

He’d been living a double life.

It explained a lot. The odd hours. The phone calls he took in another room. The frequent trips out of town. And that one time, when she’d come downstairs very early and surprised him working at the kitchen table. He’d had the little black book then, jotting something so intently he didn’t even notice her until she spoke. He’d slammed the book shut and hurried out of the room with it, making the excuse that he was running late.

“I work in sales, babe,” was how he’d always swept her questions away.

Brody tried pleading now. “Hey, Cassie, you know I love you. I did it for us, babe.”

For us? Cassie’s jaw clenched.

There was one name in the little black book that was different from all the rest. Ava Smirnov. No address. No cause of death. But lots of dates. Starting at 1 p.m. on a Wednesday five months ago, then gradually meeting for lunch, then dinner, then stretching into the evening. The times all coincided with his out-of-town trips. And every time he wrote down the next meeting, he drew little happy faces and hearts all around Ava’s name.

Brody’s most recent meeting with Ava was last evening, and he’d arrived back home at noon today. He’d come home whistling, giving Cassie an absent-minded peck on the cheek. He’d placed his briefcase in his office, his carry-on in the bedroom, his shirts in the laundry room. Then he said he needed to run into town.

“But what about lunch? You just got home.”

“I ate before getting on the plane. Fancy brunch.”

“Seems you enjoy a lot of fancy meals on these trips.”

“Life of a salesman, babe. Life of a salesman.”

As he’d driven off, tires crunching down the gravel drive, Cassie decided she’d had enough bullshit.

Brody was losing patience now. “Cassie, c’mon. It’s freaking hot out here.”

It was even hotter in the barn. Cassie wasn’t sure how much longer she could hold out. She cursed herself for having married in haste, a whirlwind romance and a rubber-stamped ceremony by a justice of the peace. And now she was repenting at leisure. According to the little black book, she didn’t know her husband at all, and now some dude named Enzo Bianchi was swimming with the fishes, having been dumped overboard with his feet chained to a cinder block.

Who the hell even thinks about doing something like that?

Her husband. That was who.

Cassie shifted in her hiding place, a cramp in her hip tightening into a painful knot. Brody was right: she’d have to come out eventually. But how could she escape? Their nearest neighbor was five miles away; the nearest town seven miles beyond that. She couldn’t walk it. She’d have to get to her car.

Brody switched gears again. “Look, sweetheart, I hate this farm, too. But we can go away somewhere. How about the Caribbean? We could rent a house on the beach…”

Cassie shivered at the idea of sleeping next to him ever again. She closed her eyes, praying she wouldn’t vomit.

Brody warmed to his idea. “Wouldn’t you love lounging around the pool, sipping a piña colada and soaking up the rays?”

Yeah, like we could afford that, Cassie scoffed. And then she opened her eyes wide. It suddenly occurred to her that the $20,000 of neatly bundled bills she’d found with the little black book was just the beginning. Even though she’d caught him red-handed, busted him on his murderous rampage, Brody wasn’t going to quit. There was more money where the $20,000 came from. Probably a lot more. She wondered just what kind of people he was working for.

Brody’s make-nice composure was slipping. “Damn it, Cassie, get the hell out here!”

She stole another glance through the crack. His face was blood red and sweating, his hands balled into fists.

“Fuck it!” he yelled. He stormed into the house, slamming the screen door behind him.

Cassie bolted up. Did she have time to get to her car? If he heard her coming, there was no way she could outrun him.

But this was her only chance. She tucked the $20,000 and the little black book back into her bag, then stole silently to the other side of the barn. She grasped the ladder she’d pulled up into the loft behind her, hours ago now. Slowly, she lowered it down and swung her foot onto the first rung. The aluminum ladder was unforgiving, announcing each step with an echoing metal clang. But she was committed now. She jumped over the last few rungs, then jogged to the barn door, her eyes welded to her car way on the other side of the yard. Suddenly the front door crashed open. She jumped back into the shadows, her heart thudding.

Peeking around the door frame, she watched as Brody threw two suitcases into the trunk of his car. He opened the driver’s door but just before getting in, he scanned the many outbuildings, as if he might spot her at last.

“Bye, Cassie. I’m done.”

With screeching tires, he hightailed it down the long dirt driveway and through the tall hedge that hid their house from the highway.

When she couldn’t hear the car anymore, Cassie walked out into the sunlight on wobbly legs. The earth shifted, then righted itself. She needed water. And her phone. She could call her sister, ask to stay with her.

Inside, the house was ransacked, bookcases tipped over and drawers turned upside down, their contents spilled across the floor. How Brody must have panicked when he discovered his black book of secrets and the $20,000 missing from his hiding place.

How could he have betrayed her? Had their love ever been real? But that was all water under the bridge. She had the proof in the little black book. Adam Biancho, electrocuted in his bathtub. Lily Wong, murdered by meat cleaver. Leo Parker, died from spaghetti when his garlic cloves were switched with poisonous daffodil bulbs. That final one showed Brody was getting more sophisticated with each murder, making them harder for any cops to solve.

Cassie darted upstairs to their bedroom, leaping over bedcovers and books that littered the floor. She packed only an overnight bag, deciding to buy whatever else she needed later. The $20,000 would come in handy, at least.

She pummeled back down the stairs, threw open the front door and bolted out, running smack into Brody’s chest.

“I’m baaaack,” he smirked.

Cassie stumbled backwards to the floor.

“Figured if I drove down the road a little and walked back quietly, you’d come out,” Brody said, lifting her onto her feet as if she weighed no more than a kitten.

“So where’s the money, Cassie? And my little black book?”

“I destroyed them,” she lied.

“Nah, you didn’t.” He laughed, sidling up to her, pressing his body close to hers. “C’mon, Cassie. Don’t you think you’re being a wee bit melodramatic?”

Melodramatic?

Something inside of her broke. Wriggling out of his grasp, Cassie pulled the notebook and stacks of bills out of her bag and slammed them down on the counter. Opening the book, she read, “Dana Murray. Loves massages. Buried under the red oak.”

Brody rolled his eyes. “It just wasn’t working out with her…”

Cassie held a finger up. “Frederick Marquis: poisonous dart. Jenna Watson: shot with arrow. Edith Stiles: strangled with pantyhose.”

Brody snickered. “Practice makes perfect.”

“Enzo Bianchi. Dumped overboard. Cinder block tied to his feet.”

“What’s wrong with that?” Brody exclaimed. “He was a drug dealer! He deserved to die!”

“But it’s such a stupid cliché!” Cassie screamed. “A cinder block? Are you kidding me? I’ve been trying to get published for years, and you get a book deal on your very first try? And a $20,000 advance?”

“Aw, babe. It was just beginner’s luck.”

“Why didn’t you tell me what you doing?”

“I wanted to surprise you.” He gestured to the counter, where Cassie finally noticed the ice-cream cake, all melted now, the bottle of champagne and the bouquet of roses. “I even cashed the check before coming home this morning, ‘cause I thought it'd be cooler to see twenty thousand in crisp new bills.”

Brody pulled her close again. “I came back from town, all ready to tell you the good news, only to find you’d ransacked the house. And the money and my story notes were gone.”

“And all those meetings with Ava Smirnov?” Cassie demanded.

“Ava’s my editor. She’s worked hard to help me turn my notes into a bestseller,” Brody assured her. “Babe, you’ve always been the only one for me.”

Cassie leaned her head against his chest, listening to the slow, steady rhythm of his heartbeat. “I was just about to leave when I heard your car on the gravel. I didn’t think I had time to get to my car, so I hid.”

Brody stroked her hair tenderly. “I honestly did it for you. For us. Now we can move someplace nice, where other creatives live, and you can focus on writing full-time.”

“You really think I can write something that sells?”

“Of course. Just one thing. You gotta stop being so nice to your characters.”

She looked up at him. “How so?”

“You get too attached. You hate to see them struggle or get hurt, so there’s no tension in the plot.”

Cassie nodded. “Like Steven King said. Kill your darlings."

“Right.”

“Well, you’re the expert now.” Cassie picked up the knife on the counter, the one that had been left to cut the cake, and rammed it clear through Brody’s beating heart. She watched as he instinctively, hopelessly, tried to pull the knife out of his chest with his bare hands, before buckling to the ground.

She didn’t stay to watch the ending. She slipped the money and the black book into her bag, stepped over Brody and headed out the door. Her new passport and identity were already safely tucked away, along with her airline ticket to the extradition-free Maldives. Poor Brody. He never saw it coming, never knew what she’d been plotting for him all along. She still had a few loose ends to tie up, of course, but she would figure those out later, sitting poolside with her piña colada.