The Replacement Wife’s Vengeance

Chapter 6: The Schedule

I sat on the floor with my back against the door. That smile I’d forced for the camera still felt stuck on my face, like dried glue.

He was in the walls now. In a painting and I was going crazy.

I had to get the burner phone. It was in the bathroom, hidden in the tampon box. But the bathroom was down the hall. In camera land.

I stood up, tried to any normal and went into the bathroom.

I walked out, didn’t look at the ugly painting. I could feel its eye on my back. I went into the bathroom, locked the door. I didn’t turn on the light. I felt under the sink, my fingers finding the cardboard box. I pulled out the cheap plastic phone.

The screen glowed in the dark. I opened the text thread with my brother David.

Me: Appointment is next Friday. 1 PM. Crestwood Oncology Clinic. 2215 Metro Drive. I’ll be done by 4. I’ll be weak. I’ll need to go somewhere he won’t look.

I hit send. It felt like throwing a message in a bottle into a hurricane.

Three dots appeared. Then his reply.

David: I’ll be there. A black Ford Explorer. Do you have cash for a motel?

Me: A little. Not much.

David: I’ll handle it. Don’t bring anything he can track. No cards. No jewelry. Nothing.

Me: Okay.

David: Clara. Is he hurting you?

I stared at the words. My fingers froze. How do you answer that? The bruises weren’t the kind you could see.

Me: He’s killing me slowly. That’s why I have to go.

The dots stayed for a long time.

David: See you Friday.

I shoved the phone back into its hiding place. I flushed the toilet for noise and ran the sink.

When I came out, Anya was in the hallway. She jumped guiltily. She’d been standing there.

“What?” I whispered, barely moving my lips.

She jerked her head toward her room. We went in. She shut the door. She didn’t have a painting-camera in here. At least, not yet.

“I have something,” she said. She went to her closet, pulled out her small suitcase. From under a pile of clothes, she took out a manila envelope. She handed it to me.

It was thick. I opened it. Inside were printouts. Emails. Bank statements. Screen-shots of text threads.

“What is this?”

“I’ve been… saving things,” she said, her voice low and shaky. “Since I got here. He leaves his laptop open sometimes when he takes calls. I look and take the pictures I can.”

I flipped through. There were emails about offshore accounts. Transfers. A text to someone named Leo: The wife is compliant. Handle the NDAs for the girl. She stays until the birth.

My blood went cold. “Anya, this is…”

“It’s proof,” she said, her eyes big and scared. “Proof he’s planning something. For after the baby comes. He’s not just going to let me stay, Clara. He’s not going to let me leave. There’s an NDA. He’s going to pay me off and make me disappear. I think… I think he’s done it before.”

The room felt smaller. “Why are you giving this to me?”

“Because you have a plan. And I don’t. If you get out… maybe you can use this. To make him leave us alone. Or to burn it all down.” She hugged her stomach. “I just want to be able to raise my baby. Somewhere quiet. Where he forgets we exist.”

I held the envelope. It was heavier than it looked. It was a weapon, a really dangerous one at that.

“If he finds this, he’ll destroy you,” I said.

“Then don’t let him find it.”

I needed to hide it. Somewhere he’d never look. My eyes landed on her laundry basket. Full of her clothes. He never touched her stuff. He barely saw her as a person.

I folded the envelope small and tight. I lifted the basket, shoved the packet deep into the bottom, under everything. “Here. For now.”

She nodded, relieved.

“Next Friday,” I whispered. “I’m leaving after my appointment. If you want to run, you need to be ready. Have a bag. Something small. Be waiting.”

“Where?”

I didn’t know. “I’ll text you. On a new phone. I’ll get one for you. We’ll figure it out.”

Hope flickered in her eyes. It looked a lot like terror.

The next two days were a prison routine. Marcus called on video every night. He made me walk him through the apartment. He’d ask random questions. “What book is on the coffee table?” “Did the cleaner come today?” Testing my honesty against his cameras.

I barely passed and I was getting sick of it.

Thursday morning, the day he was due back, my real phone buzzed with a calendar alert I’d forgotten I’d set.

PORT INSERTION - CRESTWOOD ONCOLOGY - 10 AM

Today. It was today.

Panic shot through me. I’d been so focused on the Friday chemo, I’d blocked out the surgery to put the port in my chest. The one I couldn’t hide.

I had three hours.

I ran to the bathroom, turned on the shower. I texted Linda from the burner under the cover of the noise.

Me: Port surgery is today at 10. I’m coming. Need to hide it. What do I tell him?

Her reply was fast.

Linda: Tell him you have a preventative women’s health procedure. A D&C. He doesn’t need details. It’s common. We’ll bandage it like one. Hurry.

A D&C. A procedure after a miscarriage. The irony was so dark it wasn’t even funny.

I got dressed. I put on a loose, high-necked sweater. I went to the kitchen where Anya was.

“I have a doctor’s appointment,” I said, my voice loud for the cameras. “For… that female problem I told you about. I might be a few hours. Can you hold down the fort?”

She played along, confused but nodding. “Yeah. Sure. Hope it goes okay.”

Marcus’s flight landed at 1 PM. I had to be back, bandaged and normal, before then.

I took a cab. At the clinic, they rushed me through. Dr. Lee was there. “You ready for the first step?” she asked.

“Just make it look like something else,” I said, lying back on the table.

The local anesthetic pinched. I felt pressure, tugging. They put a port under the skin near my collarbone, a little raised bump with a tube leading to a vein. My new accessory. The thing that was going to save my life or get me caught.

They bandaged it up high, like it was on my upper chest, not lower. They gave me a stack of gauze and tape. “Change it daily. Keep it dry. No one will know.”

I was out by 12:30. I walked to a drugstore, bought the biggest box of maxi pads I could find. Prop material.

I got home at 12:55. Anya was pacing.

“His car just pulled into the garage,” she hissed.

I ran to my room, ripped off the surgical bandage. I taped a huge wad of gauze high up, near my shoulder, where no one would question it. I put the clean bandages and the box of pads in my top drawer. I threw on a fresh sweater just as I heard the front door open.

“Clara?” Marcus’s voice echoed.

“In here!” I called, my voice bright.

He appeared in the doorway. He looked tired but sharp. His eyes scanned me, the room. “How was your procedure?”

“It went well, all good.” I gestured to the box of pads on my dresser. “Just… dealing with that.”

He looked away, uncomfortable. Men like him didn’t want details. “Good. And the jewelry?”

Crap. The jewelry. I’d forgotten to fake-pick it up.

“I… I went yesterday. They said it needs one more day. Something about the ultrasonic cleaner being broken.” The lies were endless.

He frowned. “Call them. I want it tomorrow. I’m tired of this delay.”

“I will.”

He stepped closer. He reached out and touched my neck, his fingers brushing the edge of the fake bandage. I froze.

“You look pale,” he said.

“Just a long morning.”

His hand dropped. “Don’t forget your priorities, Clara. The baby is due in less than four months. I need you focused. Not running to doctors for little things.”

Little things. I nodded.

He left to go unpack. I sank onto the bed, my hand over the real bandage, over the port beneath my skin. A secret entrance for poison. A secret exit plan.

My burner phone buzzed in its hiding place. I waited until night, until the apartment was quiet, to check it.

It was a confirmation text from the clinic.

Crestwood Oncology: Your first chemotherapy infusion (R-CHOP regimen) is confirmed for tomorrow, Friday, at 1 PM. Please arrive with your support person. Expect to be here 4-6 hours.

And underneath it, a second text from an unknown number.

Unknown: Car will be waiting. Don’t be late. We have a lot to talk about. - D

It was happening. Tomorrow.

I heard a floorboard creak outside my door. I shoved the burner under my pillow.

The doorknob turned slowly. It wasn't locked.

Marcus stood in the doorway, backlit by the hall light. He was holding a small, velvet box.

“I got tired of waiting for the jeweler," he said, his voice quiet. He opened the box. Inside were my grandmother's emerald earrings. "Found them in a very interesting place. Now, Clara... why don't you tell me where you really were this morning.