Kill Sleep Repeat: A Psychological Thriller Read online

  His blood splatters beautifully against the white space, the cut to his throat clean and precise. With a confused look in his eye, he staggers forward.

  I smile, knowing he’ll bleed out in seconds. That the job is done.

  The thrumming sound of my pulse beating between my ears picks up pace as I watch him fall to the floor and then take his last breath.

  Kneeling down next to him, I lift the knife to his chest, stopping and hovering just above his rib cage. Using the tip, I trace the word liar into the tanned, taut skin above his heart. Then I plunge the blade deep into his chest, erasing everything. I stab again and again, until I hit bone, until I feel nothing, until I’m slumped over him, breathless.

  A familiar sensation washes over me, and I sigh, once again reminded that this is what it feels like. Bliss. Sweet, fleeting bliss.

  When my breath steadies, I stand and compose myself, tucking the knife inside my dress. Then I make my way into the kitchen, where I locate the computer monitor that displays the footage from the cameras. I watch for movement. I see nothing. In the living room, the pundit on the TV is still rambling. I follow the sound back to my drink. I’m pleased to see the ice cubes haven’t watered it down. I take the glass and make my way over to the horrible couch, where I stand for a second, sipping the whiskey, taking it all in. I wonder what was going through their minds. Was it a fad purchase? Or a beloved piece carefully selected with this room in mind?

  Maybe a little of both.

  Maybe it doesn’t matter.

  I glance over at the lifeless body sprawled out on the floor, his pants pathetically around his ankles, and I smile. Then I make myself comfortable. And I finish off my drink.

  Chapter Two

  Charlotte

  The clock on his side of the bed reads 5:47 a.m. Predawn light filters ever so slightly through the tops of the blackout curtains. He is on top of me, pumping away. Our Wednesday ritual.

  Sex is important in any marriage, so when Michael suggested putting it on the calendar, I found no reason to object. Between my flight schedule, his commute, and two children pulling us in every direction but the same one, Wednesday, predawn, was the only available calendar slot.

  Seven minutes ago, when the alarm sounded, and he rolled over to my side of the bed, sweeping his hand across my thigh, I smiled. Michael is nothing if not punctual. Sure, I’d prefer coffee over rigorous thrusting first thing, but I admit it’s not the worst thing I could be doing.

  Feeling him search for my hands in the dark, I offer up a soft moan. A distraction, so that the slight crook in the pinky finger on my left hand, and the nasty greenish-blue hue it has taken on, can remain safely tucked under the pillow.

  Eventually, he finds it, and as he does, he shifts his weight, which causes my breath to catch. He takes this as a sign to increase speed, and all of a sudden, I hate myself for breathing. “Flip over,” he huffs, pulling out. “I want you from the back.”

  Gritting my teeth, I methodically roll over. Michael has always loved my ass, it’s one of the few things time, gravity, and childbearing haven’t touched. The dim light doesn’t hurt.

  He sees only what he wants to see.

  White-hot heat sears down my lower back when he grabs my left hip, flirting with the bruises that have bloomed across my thighs overnight, anchoring me into position. He sighs, his breath heavy and hot against my ear. “God, you feel good.”

  He doesn’t mean to hurt me. In the dark, it’s impossible to make out the telltale signs that adorn my body. In the dark, like other aspects of my life, this, too stays hidden.

  Liar. My mind flashes back to letters etched into a tan, hairless chest, spelling out a word I know well. Gripping Michael’s forearm, I dig my nails in. Suddenly, he is not my husband. Suddenly, he is every man who has ever hurt me. Pain is equally intoxicating and suffocating in that way. The body doesn’t easily forget.

  “Jesus, Charlotte.” He slows and runs his fingers up my side, stopping at my face, where he uses them to pry my hand away. “That’s going to leave a mark.”

  His voice brings me back to the present. “Sorry.”

  “Are you okay? It seems—”

  “I’m fine.”

  I’m not fine. Overnight the bruising that spans my torso has spread upward, snaking itself around my rib cage like vines climbing a trellis. Every breath is a reminder.

  “Maybe you’d feel better if you let me take this off,” he says, fisting the old T-shirt of his I’ve refused to remove.

  “It’s cold.” It’s the only thing keeping the laceration on my hip covered.

  His eyes dart toward the clock. “I’ll warm you up,” he says. And he does. The pain comes cyclically, in waves with each thrust. It radiates angrily, building and subsiding, starting at the base of my forehead, traveling to the tips of my toes, and back again. My body, when pressed into the mattress, aches to let go, to give up, to give in to the pain, or the pleasure, or both. My mind, on the other hand, begs to tell him to slow down. So as not to prolong the session, I bite my tongue. The sweet-metallic taste of blood fills my mouth, keeping me in the here and now.

  As he picks up pace, it helps to imagine the faces of men long dead. Slack jaws, lifeless eyes, ridged extremities. It’s meant to serve as a distraction, and for a moment, I feel a familiar heat building within me. I think I might actually come.

  Unfortunately, the feeling dies just as quickly as it builds. Last night is still too fresh in my mind and clearly also in my body. I can’t get there. Wherever there is, it remains elusive, a place I know well but remains just out of reach. I can’t quite bring it into focus.

  Unable to remain in this position without suffocating or crying out, I shimmy back onto my side.

  “On your stomach,” he says. “Turn over. All the way.” It’s a half-hearted request, and thankfully, he does not stop to give me the chance to oblige. His hand pushes my hip into the mattress. “Char—”

  Instinctively, I sink my teeth into his hand, an act of aggression that is met by one of his own. He twists my hair around his fist and pulls. It makes me smile. He wants to play. That side of him doesn’t usually come out this early. “I said turn over.”

  “No.”

  He tries to force me, which nicks an edge somewhere deep inside. The impulse to fight is there—the urge to reach for the knife, or the gun under the mattress, to make it stop. But then he slips his hands between my legs, where his fingers begin a delicate dance, and logic prevails. “That feels good…” My fingers grip the sheets. “I’m almost there.”

  My lie has the intended effect. He speeds up.

  “Oh God.” He pushes my face into the pillow. “Oh fuck. Yes. Please. Just—”

  “I’m going to come,” he grunts. “I’m—”

  In waves at first, and then all at once, his body is rigid, and then it goes slack. After several long seconds, he collapses onto me. “Did you get there?”

  “Of course,” I say. “Wasn’t it obvious?”

  “Just wanted to make sure.”

  There is pleasant relief when he lifts up and climbs off me, and I allow my eyes to close, just for a moment.

  I hear him towel off and then the room floods with purple light as he flings the curtain open. He walks back over to the bed and stands there for a second. When I open my eyes, his brows are knitted. After a second or two, he leans down and pats my ass. “What a way to start the day.”

  As he makes his way across the bedroom and into the bath, I admire all the ways in which middle age has left him relatively unscathed. He’s still long and lean and fit, and aside from a few laugh lines and a smattering of crows’ feet, not much has changed since the day we met. “You got back late,” he says, glancing over his shoulder. “It’s no wonder you’re tired.”

  I’m not sure if it’s meant to be a dig about my performance or merely an observation. “Yeah, yesterday was a killer.”

  “And you’re flying again today?”

  Fishing my cell phone from the n
ightstand, I answer, “Another red eye, I’m afraid.”

  He doesn’t respond, probably because this is a conversation we’ve already had.

  “Nina is picking Sophie up from practice.”

  He tosses a towel in my direction. “And Hayley?”

  Pretending not to have heard him, I stare at my screen. One less lie I’ll have to tell with a straight face. Scanning my email for the day’s itinerary, I tap on a subject line that reads: Dan and Jackie–Anniversary Dinner. The email contains three paragraphs of text. Attached are several photos of a dinner party.

  Dear Ones,

  Thank you for coming out to share our anniversary. It was a magical night filled with all the people we love. What a blessing it was.

  Just a reminder, we’re hosting game night next Wednesday. Should start around 7:30 and end around 9:15 or so. Hope to see you there! <3

  Love to you all —

  Jackie

  P.S. Please update your contact list with Dan’s new email: [email protected]

  Ignoring the words, I extract the numbers and symbols which make up the password that enables me to access compressed data stored in the tedious photos. Back when I first learned how this worked, I thought it was a little risky, sending so much information in an email anyone could read. Covert communication is key, I was told. They could encrypt the messages, but even if they were unbreakable, they’d draw attention. It made sense. No one gives a crap about other people’s vacation photos, at least not to the extent to look too deeply into them.

  “Charlotte?” Michael calls from the bathroom. “Have you gone back to sleep?”

  “No. Just making a grocery list.”

  “I asked about Hayley.”

  “Oh—” I scroll through another email before filing it away in a folder to be read later. “I thought you were picking her up.”

  “Me?”

  I don’t answer. Sometimes it is best to let people come to their own conclusions. Eventually, the shower turns on.

  I ease out of bed, roll my neck, and make a beeline for the closet in search of something sufficient enough to hide my injuries.

  Michael peeks his head around the bathroom door. I’ve forgotten. He doesn’t like to argue on days I fly. “I’ll see if I can cut out early,” he says. “If not, I’ll ring the Terrys.”

  I hear his words. But they don’t register. My mind has already flung itself far into the future, into the data, to the job I have to do. Carpool is the least of my concerns. I have a murder to plan.

  Chapter Three

  Charlotte

  As I slap mayonnaise between two slices of bread, I run through it in my mind. Calling my shot, I watch it play out, making sure to envision the outcome I want, just as athletes do before a big match. Henry taught me this. Murder is mostly a mental game.

  This is a theory I’ll be forced to put to the test today, considering that my body aches in unfamiliar places and I’m slightly delirious. I just hope Henry’s right. I really need today to be cut and dry.

  My husband notices. I know because he’s commented— not once, but twice—that I’ve over-extended myself this month making too many bids, which he rarely does.

  We need the money. At least that’s what I told him. College and retirement always come faster than you think, I said, knowing he couldn’t argue with me on that.

  That’s not to say I don’t see his point. I’m not fond of back to back trips, either. They don’t give me much time to think, and it’s the build-up I miss most when things move this quickly. How lovely it is to have segments of time set aside, just to imagine, to daydream, and maybe even to grocery shop. Those stolen moments that make a job well done that much sweeter.

  It’s important to take them when you can. I’m taking one now, as I slice deeply into the turkey sandwich, making a perfect diagonal cut. I imagine the elongated throat of my mark, opening slowly, offering blood, giving life over to death, and suddenly I feel a deep sense of peace. It occurs to me that I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be, doing exactly what I’m supposed to be doing.

  It’s a beautiful moment, until my youngest daughter enters the kitchen and begins slinging things around, rendering any sort of substantial thought nearly impossible. “Have you seen my math homework?”

  I glance up from my sandwich artistry, a hint of warning in my eyes. At thirteen, she is as petulant as they come, alternating between thinking she is an adult and acting like a child. “Nope.”

  She slams her fist into the granite. “I left it right here!” Her eyes meet mine. I offer a tight smile noticing how much she looks like me at that age, with subtle hints of her father thrown in. “I put it here,” she screeches, stabbing her finger at the countertop. “Right here.”

  “I doubt it grew legs,” I say, knowing how it will land. Someday all that pent-up anger will serve her well. But not today, so I motion toward the door. “Out of my kitchen. I have to finish lunches. And I have a flight to catch.”

  As I watch Hayley stomp off, Michael wanders in, his gazed fixed on the Josie Natori silk caftan I threw on while he was in the shower. A gift from Henry. “What’s her deal?”

  “Poor organizational skills.”

  “Let me guess…her homework?” He walks over, pausing in the doorway and shouts after her, “Check the dining room!”

  Eventually, Sophie saunters in, her skirt beyond several inches too short. It’s miles in the wrong direction, hovering just below the crease where her behind meets her upper thigh. I palm the knife, gripping it so tight my fingers go numb. I watch Michael take note. Disapproval and something else—worry, I think— passes over his face. It’s not her fault entirely. She’s testing her limits, but only to a degree. It doesn’t help her cause that she’s all arms and legs, just like her father. At fifteen, the rest of her hasn’t grown into them yet, which makes it awkward watching her lurch herself from one place to the next, never seeming sure of exactly who or where she is.

  She makes a beeline for the fridge. “Who’s picking me up today?”

  “Nina.”

  I notice a subtle shift in her features. A faint smile. Sophie’s more controlled than her sister, more like me in that regard. She doesn’t wear her emotions on her sleeve, which means I have to watch closely. “I can just get a ride with Toby.”

  “Your mother has already arranged for you to ride home with Nina,” Michael tells her, his tone leaving no room for rebuttal. He often forgets his daughters aren’t little girls anymore, but this morning it seems he remembers. “And that outfit isn’t going to pass dress code.”

  Sophie buries her head in the refrigerator, but I feel the eye roll from across the room. “Whatever.”

  “I can’t afford to get a call from the school, Soph—I’m in meetings all day and your mother is flying.”

  “Fine!” she hisses, slamming the refrigerator door closed. “I’ll change.”

  I’m just about to reprimand her for yelling when Michael asks where I’m flying to, catching me off guard. He rarely asks anymore, and I rarely offer more information than I have to.

  “Oh,” I say, screwing the lid on the mayonnaise. “Um…Florida, I think.”

  His bottom lip juts out. “Florida doesn’t sound half bad.”

  My eyes meet his. “Oh yeah? When’s the last time you’ve been there?”

  When he raises his brow, I know it’s a point well made.

  It’s blissfully quiet for a moment, until Hayley storms in brandishing her phone. “This thing sucks.”

  Michael shrugs.

  “It’s dead. Again!”

  “You have to charge it,” Sophie scoffs. “But you probably forgot that too.”

  “I did…jerk.” I watch Hayley as she sits down on a barstool and sulks. “It had like…twenty percent battery!”

  When no one responds to her, she tries harder to get the attention she is after. “I keep telling you guys. I need a new one.”

  “What you need,” I tell her, “is a job.”

&nb
sp; “All right,” Michael cuts in, sensing WWIII coming on. “Let’s go.” He swoops around the counter and leans in for a peck on my cheek. “Everybody out the door.”

  “How am I supposed to get a job? I’m just a kid,” Hayley says shoving her books in her bag, but looking at her now, we both know it isn’t true.

  Michael gives me the once-over. “You’ll be back tonight?” I watch as he stuffs his keys and his phone into his pocket. There’s something he’s not saying.

  My stomach seizes. “That’s the plan.”

  He makes the universal whew sign, placing his hand to his forehead. Eventually, he leans in for another peck. “Good,” he says. “Because I couldn’t do this without you.”

  “Nor I you.”

  If there’s something he’d wanted to say, he’s changed his mind. He’s all smiles as he heads out the door. Me too, because it’s finally quiet, and I can think about murder.

  Chapter Four

  Charlotte

  You blink and you’re making your descent into Dulles. Blink again and you’re on the runway at McCarren. Blink three times and you’re landing at Teterboro.

  You takeoff at Van Nuys, land at Love Field.

  Look up and you’re taxiing at Hobby.

  That’s life. Always up in the air. That’s certainly how I feel now, trying to get out the door, realizing I forgot to switch the laundry over, and I’m destined to head to the airport in a damp uniform. It’s also where I first encountered Henry Noble. Henry, with his sleepy eyes and stoic demeanor. I was just back from maternity leave—a prolonged leave, but I was back nonetheless. It’s hard to believe that was almost fifteen years ago now—that is, unless I look in the mirror, at which point it’s suddenly evident. There’s little left of the girl I was back then.

  In fact, almost nothing at all.