• •
  I stood in the doorway of our basement, unable to breathe. My fingers clutched the wooden frame as I stared at the scene before me.

My husband, Lucien Vixley, was washing his hands in the small utility sink.

Behind him was a man strapped to a metal chair.

Or what remained of him.

Lucien glanced over his shoulder.

Then he smiled.

“Darling.”

One word.

That’s all it took for my stomach to drop.

“You’re home early.”

I couldn’t speak.

Lucien turned off the faucet, dried his hands with a towel, and walked toward me.

His expression was gentle. Almost affectionate.

The same expression he’d worn when proposing.

The same expression he’d worn when kissing my forehead before work.

The same expression he’d worn when whispering that he loved me.

“What’s wrong, sweetheart?”

I stared at the blood on his cuff.

“Lucien…”

“Hm?”

“Who is that?”

His eyes briefly traveled toward the man behind him.

Then back to me.

“Oh.” He looked almost embarrassed. “You weren’t supposed to see that.”

I took a step backward.

Lucien noticed.

His smile disappeared.

“Don’t.”

It was quiet.

Not angry.

Not loud.

Just one word.

I froze.

He approached me slowly, then lifted his hand to my cheek.

His wedding ring was cold against my skin.

“You’re shaking, baby.”

I swallowed.

“You’re a monster.”

For a moment, he said nothing.

Then he leaned forward and kissed my forehead.

“Perhaps.”

His thumb brushed beneath my eye.

“But I’m your monster.”

And that’s when I realized something.

I’d married a murderer.

And he had absolutely no intention of letting me leave.*