Convinced (A Women’s Suspense Short), Page 3

  Did she really hate him?

  Could she ever truly hate the only man she had ever loved no matter what he did?

  But how could she ever love him again, in spite of her feelings?

  Her mouth felt dry, as if she had been in the desert for a month. She lifted her glass of wine and took a sip, if only to wet her throat.

  Though she wanted only to drown herself in sorrow, there were still other questions, other answers that she needed to concern herself with. Because she'd had no experience with a cheating husband, she had not been prepared to face all the implications that came with the territory.

  Why had he told her of his affair? To absolve his guilty conscience?

  To cruelly hurt her in the worst way possible?

  Or was he was planning to leave her for this other woman?

  The mere notion sent a shiver up and down Emma's spine. Somehow in her shock she had not considered that it was he who might want to dump her rather than the other way around.

  Was he even worth fighting for? Or should she be grateful that he had revealed his secret life, thereby making him worthless to her?

  Maybe he was telling her this because the affair was now over and he wanted her forgiveness.

  Could their lives ever possibly be the same again?

  Or had his admission made trust impossible from this day forward, no matter what else happened?

  "Who is she?" Emma asked him pointblank, as if she needed to know in order to put a face and body to this nightmare where there seemed no escape.

  Was it Doris Applegate, his editor that he had been spending an increasing amount of time with over the last year? She was an attractive bottle blonde, a few years younger than Emma, and couldn't seem to find enough reasons not to see Harrison.

  Or perhaps it was Lena Richardson, the thirty-something vivacious organizer of the nonprofit group offering assistance to runaway children? Against Emma's wishes, Harrison had insisted on volunteering his services in raising money and counseling youth on the pitfalls of running away, though he himself had come from a functional family and never saw fit to run away. For this Lena Richardson was eternally grateful.

  Then there was Samantha Winningham, their newly widowed next-door neighbor. She was barely forty, lonely, rich, and made no secret of her attraction to Harrison. He, of course, scoffed at the notion, insisting that she meant nothing to him. But that didn't stop him from feeling obliged to assist her with household maintenance now that she was left without a husband to do it. Or apparently the will to hire professional help.

  Harrison hastily poured himself another drink. "It's not anyone you know," he said, as if she should somehow applaud him for this consideration. "We met at a book signing earlier this year and we hit it off right away. Like we were—"

  He checked himself, as if the weight of his words was too haunting for even him to say.

  "Meant for each other," Emma finished for him.

  He drank more wine and sighed. "She's young...in her early twenties. She's actually read everything I've ever written. Even those pieces that appeared in obscure magazines—"

  He was obviously flattered by the ego-tripping worship from his young tart, Emma thought disgustedly. She too had once fed his ego till it had become more accommodating than honest.

  Harrison's eyes alighted as if he were floating on a cloud of energy. "She makes me feel young, alive...needed—"

  But she needed him, Emma thought. She had always needed him. Why couldn't he see and respect that?

  When had he stopped needing her?

  "Do you love her?" The words played back in Emma's mind like a broken record. Waiting to hear the answer was like being strapped to the electric chair and waiting to see if there would be a last second reprieve or a violent, painful death by electrocution.

  Did she want to hear his reply?

  Could she stand it if he actually loved this girl toy that had made him forsake his marriage vows?

  The thought of not being loved was the worst thing Emma could think of, with the possible exception of loving a bastard who had ripped her heart to shreds.

  * * *

  She should hack him up into little pieces and send his remains to his starry-eyed little whore.

  Along with the burned pages of his damned manuscripts.

  Or perhaps it would be more appropriate and painful if it was he who burned to death. Emma was surprised by the wickedness of her thoughts. She could imagine pouring gasoline or cooking oil over him and his mistress while they were asleep after making love. She would wake them so they could see the revulsion in her eyes, just before she dropped the match.

  Their inflamed bodies would light up like a torch. Deathly screams would roar from their mouths while the flesh melted on their limbs. Soon they would be reduced to nothing more than charred bones and ashes.

  All the while Emma would watch this horror unfold and curse Harrison for turning her into an unforgiving beast who no longer cared about life, living, and compassion.

  "I hope we can still be friends," Harrison told her.

  He was putting clothes in a bag atop the bed two days after telling Emma that he was in love with another woman. She had slapped him, but felt as if it was she who had been hit harder than she could ever have imagined. She had told him to get out, hoping that he might somehow come to his senses, tell her it was all a mistake, and beg her forgiveness.

  But it was not to be.

  He had left without so much as a meager attempt at reconciliation, having clearly anticipated such, and even making plans for living arrangements.

  Plans that no longer included Emma.

  "The moment you walk out that door," she told him, "you end any chance of us remaining friends. I have no intention of going from your wife and lover to someone you think you can come to for comfort when your little bimbo decides you are too old, unsatisfying, and too much of an asshole for her."

  Harrison flung several pairs of slacks into the bag, and hit Emma with a contorted glare. "Sorry you feel that way. I was really hoping we could somehow end this more civilized."

  "No you weren't," she challenged him. "You were hoping to get the best of all worlds, just like the characters in one of your damned novels. But it doesn't work that way in the real world. You made your uncivilized bed, Harrison. Now I hope you and your mistress lie in it and rot!"

  Emma found that it had become increasingly easier to vent her feelings. She knew that she couldn't simply go away like the good wife who had been taken advantage of and mistreated. He didn't deserve to get off that lightly. She had worked too hard at making their marriage work to watch it come apart at the seams and dismiss it as if swatting away a fly.

  Harrison zipped his bag, grabbed it, and said colorlessly, "I'll pick up the rest of my things in a few days. I'm sure we'll be able to work out a satisfactory arrangement regarding property and such. Goodbye, Emma—"

  She said nothing, wanting only to hear him leave, for she could no longer stand the sight or smell of him. When she heard the front door click shut, Emma knew that the world she had come to know and love had changed forever.

  And for the worst.

  She sank down to the hardwood floor and cried for the first time. The tears stung her cheeks and seemed to embody all of the feelings that raced through her like a locomotive out of control. She no longer had a husband. Or a lover. Or a confidant. Or a best friend.

  Another woman had inherited the man she had dedicated herself to in body and spirit.

  But instead of being engrossed with self-pity, Emma found herself absorbed with anger.

  Loathing.

  Discontent.

  Revenge.

  She wanted to kill him.

  It was the only way to free her from the feelings of betrayal and anguish.

  And prevent him from taking what was hers and giving it to another woman unjustly.

  She contemplated the many ways in which she could carry out the deed.

  Carbon monoxide poisoning.


  Strangulation.

  Asphyxiation.

  Castration.

  That last thought clung to her like a second skin. She wondered how long it would take him to bleed to death from the source of his abandonment.

  She hoped it would not come too swiftly, for it would only be equitable to what she felt if he were forced to suffer for some time before the end came unmercifully.

  * * *

  The woman sat impassively at the defense table beside her court-appointed attorney. She was on trial for the murder of her husband and the attempted murder of his lover. He had been shot ten times at pointblank range. His lover had been shot three times, miraculously surviving the assault though left a paraplegic.

  Across the room, the prosecutor fidgeted nervously at his table, glancing occasionally at the defendant.

  The jury sat tensely, carefully avoiding direct eye contact with anyone, as if to do so might tip the scales one way or the other.

  The judge took all this in, sighed, and looked at the jury foreman. "Have you reached a verdict?"

  "Yes, we have, Your Honor."

  The verdict was passed from the bailiff to the judge, who glanced at it with no indication from her facial expression of what it said, before sending it back to the jury foreman.

  "Will the defendant please rise," the judge ordered.

  Her attorney stood first, and urged his client to stand. The prosecutor joined them.

  The judge knew this was the moment of truth when life and death hung in the balance. She considered this raw power for a moment or two before regarding the foreman.

  "You may read the verdict—"

  The foreman licked his lips, refraining from eyeing the defendant, as if to do so would result in some form of punishment. "We, the jury, find the defendant guilty of first degree murder and attempted murder—"

  Judge Emma Kincaid quickly restored order to the court and immediately directed the newly convicted woman to be remanded to the county jail to await sentencing.

  Emma gazed down at the woman as she was being led away by sheriff's deputies. For a moment, their eyes met and Emma felt empathy that she could never express to the woman or anyone else.

  In court she was a judge, sworn to uphold the law to the best of her ability.

  Outside of court, she was a woman. One who had all the frailties and vulnerabilities of a woman scorned.

  This was the woman that possessed her now.

  Emma left the courthouse a short while later and went directly home. She was still thinking about the case she had just presided over when she pulled up into her driveway. Waiting there beside a dark sedan were two men dressed in cheap suits. By their demeanor and respectful but uneasy expressions, Emma knew instinctively that they were police detectives.

  She got out of her silver Lexus. They approached her.

  "Judge Kincaid," said the older of the two, removing his identification from his pocket, "I'm Detective Buchanan and this is Detective Jefferson. We need to talk to you."

  She lifted a brow, wondering if they had somehow been able to invade her thoughts.

  "What is this about?"

  The detectives looked at each other, as if carrying a great secret.

  "Mind if we go inside?" Detective Jefferson asked.

  "Has something happened to my husband?" Emma surprised herself by asking, her voice fraught with emotion.

  Again the detectives exchanged glances and frowns.

  She decided to take control. "Something has happened to him. Has he had an accident?" She wasn't sure why she chose to use the word "accident" instead of "heart attack" or some other reference to death or dismemberment.

  Detective Buchanan looked at her grimly. "There was a plane crash. A twin engine Cessna went down in the Sierras. There were two people on board—Harrison Kincaid and a young woman who hasn't been identified yet." He paused. "I'm afraid that neither one survived."

  Like the good wife, Emma turned white as a ghost and began to wail like a newborn baby. "Noooo," she cried out. "There must be some mistake." She knew there was no mistake. Harrison had told her that he and his mistress were going to the cabin for a couple of days.

  Obviously he never made it.

  When she finally got rid of the detectives a half an hour later, Emma retreated to the study. Admittedly, she was in disbelief over the turn of events. It was almost as if she had willed the accident to happen.

  Yes, it had been an accident.

  She had never even contemplated Harrison's death by plane crash, though somehow it seemed fitting. She imagined the terror he and his ill-fated lover must have felt as the plane was spiraling out of control, knowing that death was imminent...mere seconds away that probably seemed like years.

  She wondered if Harrison had thought of her just before the moment of impact.

  Had he considered that the circumstances that would result in his death might never have occurred were it not for his own misguided choices?

  Emma poured herself a glass of wine. She drank it, laughing hysterically, while saying aloud: "To my darling late husband. May you and your whore rot in hell!"

  She thought about how justice seemed to have a way of prevailing when all was said and done.

  Suddenly she felt dizzy and her stomach tightened. Then her throat felt like it was on fire. She dropped the glass, spilling its contents onto the floor even before it shattered into a thousand pieces.

  Clutching her throat, Emma felt as if her entire body was being invaded by a foreign enemy. One determined to make sure she did not survive. But not before she suffered horribly.

  She fell backwards, her body wracked with pain, before she hit the floor with a thud. Her voice was raspy, but she was unable to scream. Yet her mind was still remarkably clear. She had laced the wine with strychnine.

  It was intended for Harrison.

  * * *

  Death by Trial and Error can also be found in a collection of bestselling thriller, mystery, and murder tales, EDGE OF SUSPENSE, available in eBook and audio.

  # # #

  The following is a bonus excerpt from the bestselling psychological suspense novel

  SEDUCED TO KILL IN KAUAI

  By R. Barri Flowers

  CHAPTER ONE

  My so-called perfect life in the paradise of Kauai, Hawaii began spiraling out of control and into the abyss of hell itself on what started out as a typical Saturday morning in mid-May.

  All right, so it wasn't so typical in recent terms. My wife, Victoria, and I made love for the first time in weeks. Yes, I mean weeks, not days. In fact, I had practically forgotten what it was like to do something in bed other than read, sleep, and often feel sorry for myself.

  It was Victoria's surprise suggestion that we change the pattern. At least for this day. She had said without prelude that she was in the mood for some great morning sex and a feel-good orgasm. Even during the days at the beginning of our marriage when things were hot and heavy more often than not, we never had sex in the morning. She had complained that it was too light outside. Too embarrassing. Too tight. Too little lubrication. Too this. Too that.

  I finally got the message and quit trying.

  But that morning everything was different. Victoria—still as gorgeous as the day we met, with long golden hair and bold blue eyes—was on top of me like an animal in heat. For an instant, I actually thought she was having a nightmare and attacking what she thought was the bad guy trying to get her. Then she began to laugh and kiss me, hum and kiss, and moan and kiss, till she was shaking all over. She opened her legs and fitted me expertly between them before galloping atop me as if I were a prize-winning stallion to do with as she pleased.

  I knew then that this was no damned nightmare, but rather a dream come true for both of us.

  I only hoped I didn't wake up anytime soon.

  Not till I had the time to milk the dream for all it was worth and then some.

  We must have gone at it for at least an hour of no holds barred, prime
val sex, and she didn't want to stop even then. But, unfortunately, my energy level had reached the point of no return. I was just three months shy of my fortieth birthday and no longer possessed the staying power that once carried us for hours on end. Whereas, at thirty-six, Victoria was apparently just beginning to reach her stride.

  I hadn't figured out yet whether this was a onetime deal thing or if it was the beginning of something that I could certainly learn to live with.

  We got up from our sex romp and Victoria fixed me a kick-ass breakfast fit for a king. I liked this royalty treatment. I had gotten used to things like stale donuts and Pop-Tarts for breakfast, which didn't really do much to fill me up for the day ahead.

  I had to wonder if I'd done something right that I inexplicably forgot about. Like win the lottery. Not likely, considering there was no lottery in the state of Hawaii.

  Maybe I was being rewarded for the time I helped an old lady across the street when I was a kid. Or maybe it was because I finally remembered to put the toilet seat down that had ignited all this.

  Had Victoria finally sold her first novel to a publisher after years of trying? She was a firm believer that she could never be taken seriously if she self-published her material.

  When I got tired of guessing and was unable to simply count my blessings without knowing just what the hell they were, I asked her directly: "So what's going on, Victoria?"

  She fluttered her curly lashes and raised those big, bold blue eyes at me innocently, and said: "What do you mean?"

  "Why the new you this morning?" I dipped a perfectly sliced piece of waffle into maple syrup. "Am I missing something here or have I just gone into the Twilight Zone and entered a mysterious and exciting new existence?"

  She licked her generous ruby lips. "Are you complaining?"

  "No, not at all," I had to admit. "I'd just like to know what's come over you. Was it something I said or did? Or is this just your way of telling me you're ready to be my woman again—in every way?"

  It reminded me of that old song "Love Potion Number Nine." Had she suddenly fallen under the spell of a love, lust, and affection potion?

  Though certainly piqued, another part of me wondered if sometimes it was best to leave well enough alone. Not push it too far, so that things backfired.