Page 44 of The Liar's Wife

Behind me, the door flew open with a gust of air, and the light flipped on. I hadn’t heard her coming. I didn’t know she was there. I turned around in horror, staring at the face I’d had playing on a loop through my mind for days. Her hair was dark now, just like in her most recent picture.

Her eyes narrowed at me, the knife in her hand drawn high like an ancient dagger set to be slashed through a stone.

“Put him down,” she demanded, her voice low. I held up a hand, shielding him from her as she moved closer.

“Okay, okay… Don’t hurt him,” I begged, placing him back in the crib quickly before turning around, blocking Gray with my body.

“Palmer, right? What are you doing here?” she asked, her brow furrowed. “How did you find me?”

I shook my head. “Does it even matter? I just want him back. Let me take my baby, and I’ll never tell the police where you are.”

“You’ll never tell them anything anyway,” she said, spittle forming in the corners of her mouth. “You’re never leaving here. Don’t you get that, Palmer? You couldn’t just leave us alone, could you? Coming here tonight was a grave mistake.”

“I could never leave you alone as long as you had my son. I just want him back. Just let me take him, and I’ll go away. I promise you I will.”

“You could just go have another one. Don’t you know how lucky you are?” she cried, her hand shaking as she tightened her grip on the knife.

“It doesn’t have to be this way,” I said, shaking my head. “I just want my son. Please. I can’t be without him.”

“You really don’t get it. He’s my son now. Mine. He’s not going home with you. He’s going to forget about you. He’s not going to ever know you existed.”

“Why?” I cried, turning as she moved around the room, always keeping my body between hers and the crib. “Why are you doing this?”

“He was never yours! He was supposed to be mine! He was supposed to be mine!” she fumed, her frail body shaking as it grew red with anger. I watched as she lowered the knife just a hair, trying to decide if I could catch her off guard and wrangle it from her grasp.

“He’s not, though, Katherine. He’s my son. He needs me—”

She lunged forward, and I put my hand up, grasping her wrist as she attempted to plunge the knife into my chest. Ipushed back, my strength an even match for hers, even at my weakest. I shoved her, trying to grasp the knife, but she pulled it back, kicking me square in the stomach. I fell to my knees, my arms wrapped around myself as I crawled away from her, trying to catch my breath. Something was wrong. My stomach felt strange, red hot with pain. When I glanced down, there was blood on my shirt. She moved forward with purpose, grabbing hold of my hair, and I grasped the nearest thing I could find, a lamp on the nightstand next to the crib, and swiped it at her, every movement a white-hot poker to my stomach. She met my arm with the knife, slicing into my skin, and I dropped the lamp. “Ah!” I cried out, trying to get closer to the crib. I couldn’t allow her to touch my baby again.

I darted past her, ignoring the pain in my stomach, and she spun around, her arm raised high in the air as she plunged the knife down. One of my hands was pinned underneath me, supporting my weight, the other now carrying a deep, knife gash, and I found it impossible to move it quick enough. I watched in slow motion as the knife came down, waiting for the blow. I ducked, heard the whoosh of the door as it swung open and slammed into the wall, and watched the feet approaching just as the knife connected with my shoulder, the new pain competing with the old. I screamed out, jerking back and looking up as the pain tore through my body, and I collapsed on the dingy carpet.

When I looked up, the woman stood above me, but rather than triumph on her face, there was pain. Confusion. She looked down to where, on the center of her pink shirt, a violet circle grew. She dropped the knife, stepping backward. I gasped as I watched her fall, the pain in my stomach throbbingas my vision faded in and out, and I reached a hand around to staunch the bleeding from my shoulder.

I looked back to the doorway, still not believing what I saw. He stood in the doorway, a large, bloody kitchen knife in his hand as he towered over her body with a terrifying grimace. He was bleeding from his head and upper thigh, and completely covered in dirt. When he looked at me, his expression softened, even underneath the mud.

“Ben?”

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Ben

Iwas never going to be the hero in this story. I made too many mistakes. Did all the wrong things. But I wasn't the monster she thought I was.

I still remembered everything about the day I got the call. What I was wearing—white shirt, blue tie, black slacks. What I was thinking about just before—whether or not our boss would make us stay late because her customer was being extra difficult. What I had for lunch—tacos that I threw up the second the call ended.

I remembered seeing the number pop up on my screen, one I didn’t recognize. I shouldn’t have answered it, and normally I wouldn’t on the clock, but I had to then. Something pulled me to it, some unexplainable force.

I remembered the way the words ran over me, like blades piercing my skin steady and slow. “Your wife was in a car accident. We need you to meet us at Saint Francis.”

I stood from the desk, my knees colliding with its wood. “Is she…is she okay?”

The voice was quiet. “It doesn’t look good, son. Just meet us soon.”

I hung up, emptied my stomach into the wastebasket, and rushed out the door without a word to anyone. To be honest, I didn’t remember the drive there. It was all kind of a blacked-out part of my memory, but I remembered the rest in such vivid color, it was as if there was no space left for that insignificant part of the day.

The hospital was full of nurses and patients, busy like bees, and I somehow found my way to the front desk and demanded to see her. They made me wait for hours, believing the worst. Believing she was dead.

That I’d lost her.