Second Wife To A Murderer

Whitney’s POV I had exactly one rule left in my marriage: never ask a question I wasn’t ready to hear the answer to. Especially questions whose answers I already knew. But I broke it the night I knocked on Anna Johnson’s door. From the staircase I could perceive my husband’s favorite perfume, there’s no doubt he was here earlier. What I failed to foresee was the shocking turnaround of things. How would I have known that I’d stand here with my hands stained with blood. “No, no, no, no, no!” “What have I done?” I collapsed towards her lifeless body. Her blood was still warm on my palm when my phone started ringing. I didn’t move an inch. I mean I couldn't, even if I tried. Anna Johnson laid on the pale rug in front of me, eyes open, mouth slightly parted like she still had one more cruel thing to say to me. The side of her head had hit the sharp edge of the glass console table. A dark red pool of blood was spreading under her hair, soaking into the rug. My hands were already covered in it. I stayed on my knees, staring at the red smears across my palms, as I tried to breathe. All I wanted was to confront my husband’s mistress not to kill her. She fell down and did not get up. “Anna.” Nothing. “Anna!” Her blood was spreading fast, I dropped to the floor not knowing if I should run or stay. My only crime was to follow clues I spent weeks gathering. After I saw a lipstick stain that wasn’t mine on Robert’s collar. I swore I’d find who Robert was cheating on me with. So I did my findings and it led me straight to this apartment. I just wanted to see her face, to know if she’s more beautiful than I am to be able to snatch Robert from me. The door opened before I knocked the second time. Anna opened the door in a champagne color silk robe, with half-empty wine glass dangling from her fingers. She took one look at me and smiled like she has been expecting me. “Well, well. Look who we have here.” she said. “The decorative wife finally have guts” “You know me?” I mananged to complete the sentence as I stepped inside before I could talk myself out of it. “I know who you are. You’re the woman behind the life I enjoy.” She stepped back and let the door swing wider, what an invitation dressed up as an insult. “You need to stay away from my husband,” I said. Avoiding eye contact. Anna laughed. She took a sip of wine and stared at the portrait on the wall next to the door. It was her picture with Robert all loved up. “Your husband?” She tilted her head, back to me. “Robert doesn’t talk about you like you’re his wife. You’re just a rich woman he can’t discard.” I managed to keep a calm face as my eyes scanned the living room. She had a greate taste. “How long,” I asked. “How long has this been going on?” “Three years. What are you going to do about it?” Her voice changed, she went from calm and annoying to raising her voice and leaning towards me invading my space. “He’s married to me.” I pushed her back. “And he’s been sleeping in my bed for three years.” Anna set the glass down on the console table hard enough to make the crystal ring. “Face it, Whitney. You’re the one he comes home to when he’s done making me happy. You’re so dumb even with all your money, you keep begging for love from your …” I don’t remember deciding to shove her for the second time. One second she was standing there with that smug little smile, and the next my hands were on her shoulders and I pushed her. Harder than I meant to. Anna stumbled backward. She tripped when her heels caught the edge of the rug. Her arms flailed in the air. The back of her head hit the sharp corner of the glass table with a sound I will hear until the day I die. Just like that she went down. For a second there was silence. Then the blood started spreading. Spreading across the pale rug in a dark, shining circle while Anna’s eyes stayed open. Her fingers didn’t twitch. The wine glass had shattered beside her, and the thin cut on her arm bled the most compared to the damage at the back of her head. I dropped to my knees. “Anna.” My voice cracked. “Anna, get up.” She didn’t. Down the street, I heard a siren start to wail. The sound was coming from a distance, but it kept getting closer. Or maybe it was only in my head. I couldn’t tell anymore. A lot was running through my mind. Call an ambulance. Call the police. Explain that it was an accident. But another part of me was worried about what would happen to me if I call an ambulance or the police. The position of her body. The broken wine glass.
The fact that her phone was face-up on the table, screen still lit, as if it had been recording. No one would believe me. I reached for her phone with shaking, bloody fingers, and turned it off. If I touched anything else, it would only make this worse. I killed her. I killed my husband’s mistress on a Friday night. A Friday night that was supposed to mark the beginning of Whitney Kirkwood standing up for herself was the night that turned me to a murderer. I was kneeling in her pool of blood with no idea how to undo any of this. Then the siren grew louder. I scrambled to my feet, nearly slipping in the spreading blood. My hands left smears on the edge of the table, on the doorframe, on everything I touched. I grabbed a kitchen towel and tried to wipe it off, but all I did was spread it further. My white blouse was ruined. My skirt was ruined. Everything was ruined. I had to leave. I had to get out before someone knocked on the door and found me here like this. I forced myself to stop looking at her face, grabbed my purse, and slipped out of the apartment. Thankfully the hallway was empty. The elevator took forever. By the time I reached the parking lot, my teeth were chattering even though the night was warm. I drove without seeing the road. Every pair of headlights in my rearview mirror looked like police. Every siren in the distance felt like it was coming for me. I kept checking my hands on the steering wheel, as if the blood might have disappeared. “Oh f**k!” I hit my hand on the steering. Ding! Ding! My phone rang in my blood-streaked hand. Robert’s name lit up the screen. I swiped the screen to answer the call. Afterall he got me into this mess. Then I woke up sweating all over my bed. Only to find out it was just a dream. “All this was a dream?” “Thank God.” I exhaled, feeling relieved.