Page 69 of Circle of Strangers
I grip the phone tighter, staring at the black screen, willing it to ring, for him to answer and explain.
But I already know the truth.
The account changes, the unanswered calls—it’s all intentional. Last night wasn’t just about his confession. It was about control. And now, without money, without access to anything, I’m trapped—exactly where he wants me.
I swallow hard, trying to tamp down the rising unease flooding through every last fiber of my being. But it claws at my throat, relentless and unforgiving.
For the first time in a long time, I’m feeling truly caged—and Will has the key.
It’s taking me back to a place I thought I’d never visit again, a mental and physical prison where I’m dependent on a selfish monster who sees nothing wrong with abusing their power at my expense.
Steadying my breath, I switch the radio on and crank the volume, anything to drown out the sound of my own thoughts, which are all but demanding I do the unspeakable. But I refuse. I’m not Lucinda. I’m not Will. I’m not a murderer—because I choose not to be.
But right now, I could kill this man.
52
The smell of fish sticks fills the kitchen, a far cry from the chicken cordon bleu I’d planned to make. The kids sit at the table, kicking their legs under their chairs, too distracted by the TV in the next room to notice the subpar dinner. I set their plates down with peas scooped on the side, watching the butter slide off the vegetables and settle into a yellow pool.
Will sits at the head of the table, watching me flit around like a diner waitress. “Fish sticks, huh?”
“Change of plans,” I say lightly, finally sitting down with my own plate. I spread my cloth napkin over my lap. “Dig in, everyone.”
Jackson dips his fish stick into ketchup, oblivious to the tension simmering between his parents.
We eat in relative silence, broken only by the kids’ chatter. Will pretends not to notice the tightness in my smile or the forced calm in my voice. When the kids finish, I usher them upstairs for their baths and help them into bed, brushing away stray giggles and good night kisses. Will reads them a short story, tucking them in with ease, as if nothing is out of the ordinary.
Tonight, more than any other night in recent months, I’d give anything for it to be just another ordinary evening.
I busy myself with laundry to avoid being alone with Will for as long as I can. By the time I’m finished, I find him in our bed grading papers, the bedside lamp casting a warm glow over his tranquil face.
How he can murder someone he hardly knows, blackmail his wife, then grade papers in their bed like it’s any other night is nothing short of unsettling.
These are things people like me could do without batting an eye ... but not someone like Will. I can numb myself to anything. Will cries at Disney movies, never passes a donation box without slipping a twenty-dollar bill inside, and volunteers at soup kitchens at Christmastime.
I hate that my children are sleeping under the same roof as someone capable of that. I hate that I’m sleeping next to him, too—but it’s all part of the plan. He has to think I’m pliable, submissive, on board with this. If he thinks he’s smarter than me—which he so clearly does, it’s only a matter of time before he makes another dumb mistake. Until then ... this is how it has to be.
I linger in the doorway of our bedroom, watching him. The red pen in his hand. The even rise and fall of his chest. He could be any loving husband winding down for the night—except I know better.
I cross the room and perch on the edge of the bed, gathering a breath in my lungs. “My cards got declined at the store today.”
I keep my tone neutral, as if I’m simply remarking about a petty inconvenience and not pointing fingers and picking a fight.
Will doesn’t look up from his paper. “Oh. Forgot to tell you. We’re in the process of switching to a local bank. And I’m transferring your credit cards to ones with a lower rate. Your new cards should arrive soon.”
I almost ask why he’d do that without talking to me, but I bite my tongue. I need to remain pliable, blindly obedient.
“Our old bank was based in San Diego,” he says as if he senses my unasked question. He flips a page as if we’re discussing the weather. “It’s a logistics thing. I’d been planning to do it since we moved, just hadn’t had time.”
I gather a slow breath. “Is it though? The timing is ... curious.”
“It is.” He moves his stack of papers to the nightstand with deliberate calm. Then he turns to me, his face unreadable minus thefaintest hint of something—resolve. “But also, I have to know that I can trust you, that you’re not going to take the kids and leave.”
“How am I supposed to gas up the car? Buy groceries? Get things the kids need?”
He leans forward slightly. “I’ll gas up your car for you. And I’ll give you cash when you need it. This is just temporary. We’ll get through it.”
Temporary.
