My Better Half Read online

  This one's for my mom...

  It's probably best you never killed anyone...

  (That I know of...)

  Copyright © M.M. Boulder 2020

  The moral right of the author has been asserted (vigorously).

  All rights reserved. Published by Lone Ghost Publishing LLC,

  associated logos are trademarks and/or registered trademarks of

  Lone Ghost Publishing LLC.

  No part or parts of this publication may be reproduced in whole or in part, stored in a retrieval systems, or transmitted in any form or by means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise (including via carrier pigeon),

  without written permission of the author and publisher.

  Author: Boulder, M.M.

  Title: MY BETTER HALF.

  Target Audience: Adult

  Subjects:

  Psychological Thriller, Domestic Thriller, Serial Killer Thriller

  This is a work of fiction, which means it’s made up. Names, characters, peoples, places, and incidents (stuff that happens in the story) are either gifts of the ether, products of the author’s resplendent imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead or dying, businesses or companies in operation or defunct, events, or locals is entirely coincidental.

  M.M. Boulder

  MY

  BETTER HALF

  Chapter One

  It was so satisfying. Wrapping the hose around his neck, squeezing, pulling it tight, watching his face turn white, purple, red, blue, whatever color faces turned when they couldn't breathe.

  She yanked him towards the ground, ignoring his grasping hands, and shoved his cheek against the wet dirt. "My tulips don't like so much water!" she snarled.

  He bubbled something, but she couldn't hear; she was so mad, so mad her tulips were drowning, and she wanted him to drown too.

  "Damn it, Mom!" Nate's voice broke Lucille Stevenson's terrible daydream. She hadn't meant to kill her neighbor in her mind, but how dare he leave his sprinklers running all night. How dare he drown her tulip bed!

  "You know I hate plain cream," Nate grumbled. "I told you to get the caramel macchiato kind."

  She focused on his words, resisting the uncommonly strong urge to smash the coffee pot she was holding over his head. He was full grown. He had his own home, his own wife. Why was he still coming here for breakfast?

  "Mom!"

  "Sorry, Nate; the store was out."

  "Did you try Safeway?"

  Her grip tightened on the plastic handle. If she just... No! What was she thinking? She couldn't hurt her little boy. She couldn't hurt anyone. That wasn't her. She didn't know why she'd even thought it.

  "I didn't have time," she mumbled, hating the feeling that she'd done something wrong, even though she knew she hadn't. He didn't actually NEED creamer. Why couldn't he just drink his coffee black?

  "You'll go today, won't you, Lucille?" Her husband Richard didn't even look at her when he said it. He just kept drinking his coffee and tucking away at the pancakes Lucille had gotten up at five AM to make.

  Glass suddenly shattered, sprinkling the pancakes with deadly shards. Hot coffee spewed over Richard's head, burning him, and he dropped screaming into his plate of pancakes.

  "Did you hear me?" Richard demanded, breaking her imagining.

  "Yes dear," Lucy agreed. "I'll go today." Never mind she had a million other things to do. She had to clean every inch of their gigantic two-story house, she had to get their taxes ready to take to the accountant, she had to work an eight hour shift, ignoring any sideways comments her boss made, and then she had to make supper, pay the bills, and order the household supplies.

  But never mind all that. She'd make time to drive to the store she'd just been to so she could pick up creamer for her adult son. Sure. No problem.

  She poured her own cup of coffee. Plain. No creamer. She hated creamer. It was disgusting. She'd never understood how Nate could drink it. But it wasn't her job to understand. It was her job to make breakfast.

  She ate in silence, listening to Nate gripe about work.

  "He's a total ass!" Nate said vehemently.

  Lucille flinched. They'd never allowed cussing when their kids were home. But now that the boys were grown, it seemed they could do whatever they wanted. Years ago Lucille had asked Nate to watch his mouth, and Richard had yelled at her for over an hour. He'd said it was his house, his rules. It had always been that way. Always.

  Nate finally left, without so much as a thank you or goodbye, and Lucille started cleaning. She had an hour and a half to clean up breakfast and as much of the house as she could before she went to work. She'd take the taxes with her and work on them during her lunch break.

  She wasn't sure how she'd ended up here, in this endless loop of chores and servitude. But that really wasn't the worst of it. The worst was how old she felt doing it all. She was only fifty-one. She was still on this side of young, wasn't she? So why did she feel so tired and old?

  "I'll be late tonight," Richard said as he left. "Don't wait up."

  She watched him leave, wondering what would happen if she cut his brake lines. She thought that was a thing, but she'd have to look it up first to see what a brake line was.

  She shook her head, trying to clear it. She didn't know what was wrong with her. Smashing the coffee pot over Richard's head, cutting his brake lines, murdering the neighbor with his own hose. That kind of thinking was insane.

  She ran a trembling hand through her hair. She didn't want to kill anyone. She couldn't begin to understand why she was even thinking about it.

  She just felt... hot. Hot and angry. Filled to the brim with hot anger. And she didn't know what to do with it. She'd never been angry before. She didn't yell. She didn't argue. She just nodded and did what she was told. Always had. Her father wouldn't have had it any other way.

  She put away Richard's robe and slippers, she wiped his whiskers out of the sink, and she dropped his discarded shirt into the laundry basket. She wanted to throw his shirt in the trash, but she didn't.

  It annoyed her that Richard thought she was stupid. Like she didn't have any brain. But she wasn't stupid. She knew he didn't have to work late. He worked in an office that closed at five for crying out loud. And she washed his laundry!

  Richard was having an affair. He had been, for months, years actually. She'd never cared. In fact, she preferred it.

  He and she hadn't had relations in over a year now. He used to call her cold. But he didn't bother anymore. He still called her boring and uptight. But not cold. And if only he knew. She wasn't cold now. She was furious. She wanted to wrap her hands around his fat neck and squeeze and squeeze and squeeze.

  But why? Why did she care now? Why was she angry now? It's not like she actually wanted to have sex with him. She hated having sex. It was painful.

  The last time they'd done it she'd even bled. In fact, if she had a choice, she'd rather get a tooth pulled than have sex. She'd rather ride a horse naked. Or skinny dip with piranhas. She really didn't like sex, but it wasn't her job to like sex. It was her job to have sex with Richard when he wanted it.

  She cringed, imagining his greasy hands on her naked skin. A vase suddenly appeared in her hands, and she broke it over his head.

  She flinched, breaking her imagining, and raised a shaking hand to her face. She had to get it under control. Anger was an emotion, and emotions were a sign of weakness. Weren't they?

  She finished her cleaning, grabbed the taxes, and headed to work. She parked and walked into the office.

  Dr. Banker was waiting for her. She wished he would trip and fall down the stairs. If he didn't die on impact, she could pick up his head and bang it into the floor a few more
times. Just until she heard a satisfying crack.

  Too messy, she thought, feeling the imaginary blood splatter hotly across her face. She would hold her hand over his mouth instead. He'd struggle, but it would only take a minute.

  "You're late," he snapped.

  "I'm not," she replied softly, checking her watch just in case she was.

  "We've got a full load today."

  "We always do," she muttered.

  "Try not to screw anything up."

  She blushed, grabbing a folder and opening the waiting room door. She'd been a nurse for almost thirty years, and she had never screwed anything up. But she couldn't tell him that. He was her boss.

  "Mrs. Feldman," she said with a genuine smile. "Come on back."

  Mrs. Feldman tottered slowly to her feet and followed Lucille down the hallway.

  "How are you today, Mrs. Feldman?" Lucille asked cheerfully, just a tad louder than she normally would.

  "Oh doing fine, dear. Just a checkup."

  "How's that new medication working for you?"

  "I haven't noticed any side effects, so I guess it's okay."

  Lucille smiled and carefully fit the blood pressure cuff on Mrs. Feldman's arm. She counted, then took off the cuff, making a note on her chart.

  "How are the grandkids?" Lucille asked while she wrote down Mrs. Feldman's weight.

  "Wonderful. Jennie's pregnant again. Her third."

  "That's great. How many will that be now?"

  "Six grandkids and fifteen greats."

  Mrs. Feldman grinned happily as she talked about each of them, and Lucille felt an odd pang of jealousy. She wasn't sure she'd ever be a grandma.

  Nate and his wife didn't seem overly interested in children. Which was probably good since they were so self-involved. Her other son Teddy was too busy creating video games to date or marry or be a dad. And her daughter Addie traveled all the time for the magazine she worked for. Anytime Lucille brought up marriage Addie just laughed and said, "Not yet, Mom."

  Lucy tried not to be disappointed. But there was a part of her that worried. Someday she would retire, and what would she have if she didn't have grandkids? She was a wife, a mom, and a nurse. That was it. She honestly didn't have a single other thing.

  "If only these old people would just stop hanging on," Dr. Banker remarked between patients. "I mean, quality of life goes down enough, at some point, you just gotta let go."

  Lucille took a deep breath and tried counting to ten. She'd read about counting to ten once in a magazine; at the time she'd thought it was stupid. She'd never been so angry that she needed to worry about saying or doing something she shouldn't. Usually when Dr. Banker went off on his rants she always nodded meekly and walked away.

  But the truth was Dr. Banker was an jerk, and Lucille wanted to tell him so. Mrs. Feldman had quality of life. She may toddle when she walked and take six different prescription drugs to keep herself upright, but she was living and laughing and watching her grandbabies.

  "It's like putting new parts in an old jalopy," Dr. Banker huffed.

  Lucille jumped forward, grabbing the ends his stethoscope and tightening it around his neck. His eyes bulged, and he ripped at the tube, but it was sunk deep into the flesh of his neck. She squeezed tighter, wondering how long it would take for him to die.

  "Lucille? Pay attention!" Dr. Banker snapped. "You're on the clock you know. Drift off on your own time!"

  "What?"

  He was staring at her with an annoyed look. So she hadn't strangled him. Even though it had felt very much like she had. She could still feel the anger boiling inside her, like lava, searching for a vent hole.

  "Sorry."

  "Are you sick or something?"

  "No; I'm fine." She wasn't fine. Not really. She was hot and irritated and angry. But she wouldn't be asking him for advice. No, no, no. Not when she so very much wanted stab him in the eye with a hemostat.

  Chapter Two

  Lucille managed to get through all eight hours without killing Dr. Banker or anyone else. Then she dropped off her taxes, ran by Safeway to get Nate's special creamer, and drove home.

  She ate a cold bowl of soggy soup and stared at the house finches on her feeder. She wished she had a friend to talk to. Just one. Someone she could call and tell everything. They would laugh, and her friend would say everything was alright. It would be a lie, but Lucille would feel better.

  If only she knew what was wrong with her. If only she knew why she was so angry. It had started small. She'd been annoyed by Richards's shoes in the hallway and Nate tracking mud onto her clean floors. She'd started grinding her teeth when patients repeated themselves incessantly.

  She'd stuffed it all down and ignored it, but it had continued to grow. Today she'd actually considered running over a pedestrian who had flipped her off on her way home. She felt like she was losing her mind. She needed to get rid of the anger before she accidentally did something she couldn't undo.

  She thought about calling her daughter to see what she thought, but Addie would probably have some issues with the fact that her mom imagined killing her dad. Five times. Just today.

  Richard was glad tonight was the night. The weekends always felt so endless, but then Monday would finally come. He whistled cheerfully as he drove across town to Emily's house.

  Sometimes he regretted marrying Lucille, but he hadn't had a choice. His father had insisted Richard marry if he wanted to take control of the inheritance his grandfather had left him.

  Richard had never understood exactly what his father expected from him, but he hadn't bothered to try to find out. He'd married the most biddable girl he could find, knocked her up, and played whatever games he wanted with his cash.

  He'd been a big disappointment to his father. Fortunately he'd never given a rat's ass what the old man thought.

  He shrugged, forgetting about his father and Lucille, and fantasized about Emily. He wondered what game she had devised for tonight. His palms started to sweat in anticipation. He could hardly wait, but he'd have to. She would punish him if he started without her.

  Lucille shook her head with irritation as she cleaned up her dirty supper dishes. She didn't have time to deal with emotions and anger right now. She needed to balance the check book and pay the bills. Or pay the bills and balance the check book. She rolled her eyes and sat down at her desk, opening her laptop and pulling out all her statements.

  It took her an hour to pay all the bills. Then she started balancing the checkbook. She'd always felt like balancing the checkbook was a waste of time. It's not like the bank was going to get it wrong. But she did it because her mom had taught her to.

  She scanned up and down the register, looking for a withdraw posted on the statement. "Wait," she muttered. "That can't be right." She looked at the statement again. "Ten thousand dollars?"

  Maybe the bank had made a mistake. She couldn't think of any reason why Richard would withdraw ten thousand dollars. She'd have to ask him in the morning. She circled the amount and finished the rest of the statement. By the time she was done her head was throbbing.

  A hot bath and a glass of wine. That would be just the thing. Lucille started the bath, undressed, put on her robe, and went to the kitchen for some wine.

  Just as she was opening the cabinet someone grabbed her roughly from behind.

  "Where's your cash, lady?"

  Lucille froze, and her mind blanked. The man's voice was gravely in her ear, and she could feel his breath on her neck. How? How had he gotten in? Oh god! She was going to die!

  "Come on!" he growled. "Where is it?"

  She wanted to tell him, she wanted to tell him everything, but she couldn't. She was too scared, too frightened. The fear was too thick in her throat.

  "Don't make this difficult," he said, tightening his arm around her throat and ignoring her frantic gasp for air. "Just tell me where it is. I want your jewelry, your silver, anything valuable."

  He paused and used his free hand to pull open her
robe. Cold air rushed across her breasts, and fear coiled in her stomach. "A quick shag," he whispered, running his tongue along her ear. "And then I'll be on my way."

  His hot breath brushed across her cheek, smelling like mushrooms and making her want to vomit. He was going to rape her. She wanted to scream; she wanted to claw at his arm around her throat. She wanted to push his other hand away. The one grasping her naked breast. But she couldn't. She didn't know how.

  "Answer me, bitch! You dumb or something?"

  A wave of heat rushed through her, melting her fear. How dare he come into her house, grab her boob, and call her a bitch! No one called her bitch! Especially not in her own damn house. Suddenly she wasn't scared anymore. She was angry, furious, enraged; and the anger wanted out.

  She was going to kill him. She didn't know how, but she was. He'd pay for touching her. He'd pay for everything.

  "Come on, bitch," he snarled, jerking her backwards. "Let's get this over with."

  Yes, let's, Lucille thought as the anger suddenly spilled over the top, like a volcano erupting, filling her with righteous fury. She jumped forward, grabbed the wine bottle from the cabinet, spun, breaking his hold, and slammed the bottle into his head.

  The bottle hit with a clunk, jarring it out of Lucille's hand, and knocking the robber backwards.

  "What the hell?" he snapped, stumbling slightly, but stepping towards her.

  Lucille grabbed her wine glass and threw it at his face. The glass broke on contact, cutting his face and tinkling to the floor.

  His face turned red with rage, and he roared, "You'll pay for that bitch!!"

  Lucille felt a hint a fear. She didn't know how to stop him. He was so much bigger than her, so much stronger. She glanced at the counter and grabbed the only thing there, a fork. She rushed forward, dodging his arms, and stabbed him in his eye before he could stop her.

  He screamed in pain, grabbing at her wrist, but she was too enraged to notice.