The House Behind My Dreams

My fingers trembled over the little metal wheels. I turned them one by one, setting each digit into place: 1-0-1-4.

A soft click came from the lock. I lifted the lid.

There were official-looking papers inside a manila envelope, along with a slim journal covered in worn leather. I took out the envelope first. The first sheet bore the name of a huge life insurance company.

I scanned the heading, then the name of the person insured. It wasn’t Sarah.

It was me. Chloe Evans.

The benefit was two million dollars. Beneath it, in the space for the primary beneficiary, was the name Mark Evans. My husband.

My stomach clenched so hard I grabbed the folding table to keep from falling. I turned to the next page, my eyes skimming until they landed on a power-of-attorney form. Sarah had signed it using her assumed name. It gave Mark authority over her estate and over medical choices she might need in the future.

I set the documents down, but the shaking in my hands made the pages tap against the metal surface.

Suddenly, the pieces seemed to lock together. Mark had not been chasing my mother because of some inexplicable fixation. He had wanted her money. Four years earlier, he had found her and married her to get at the assets she kept hidden. Then, after she was gone from my life, he had turned his attention to me.

Three years ago, he had entered my world as a pleasant software consultant at a friend’s dinner. He had smiled easily and offered to buy me a drink. When a migraine took hold, he had rubbed my back. On quiet Sunday mornings, he had lain beside me and talked about painting our future baby’s room a soft yellow.

All the while, he had been waiting for the right moment to collect on the insurance policy he had taken out on me.

Sarah hadn’t walked away because she didn’t care. She had made herself a target for a monster, binding herself to a man she hated in the hope that he would leave me alone.

Guilt rose hot behind my eyes. For eighteen years, I had blamed her for dying and leaving me. She had spent the last four years trying to keep me safe.

I needed to escape before Mark came down into the basement.

I searched the murky room. Near the top of the concrete wall was a small rectangular window, nearly level with the earth outdoors. Brown grime coated the glass, and gray webs clung thickly to its edges.

I seized the folding table and swept everything off it. The lockbox, papers, and journals tumbled onto the concrete. Then I hauled the table across the basement and shoved it beneath the window.

I climbed onto it. Its flimsy metal legs bent with a groan beneath me, but didn’t give way. I pulled my sleeve over my hand and scrubbed at the glass, smearing the dirt until I could make out the view.

From there I could see the side yard, the porch at the front of Arthur’s house, and a narrow slice of the road beyond.

I had expected Mark to approach the house quietly, carrying a weapon. I had pictured the hard, blank look he’d worn over the phone when he told me it was time to come home.

But what appeared outside was Mark running across the lawn.

His tie hung loose and his jacket streamed behind him. There was no gun in his hands. He gripped his phone instead, as if it were the only thing keeping him afloat. His face was drained of color and twisted with panic.

He reached the foot of the porch steps and began shouting. The thick glass kept me from hearing him, but I saw the cords rise along his neck. His mouth shaped a name I knew by heart. Chloe.

The front door swung open, and Arthur stepped out onto the porch.

Mark hurried up toward him, pleading as he raised his cracked phone and showed Arthur the screen. He didn’t look like a man hunting someone. He looked like a husband terrified and asking to be helped.

Arthur made no reply. He showed no sign of fear. The frail man in his seventies who had spoken so gently to me in the hall lifted the heavy wooden butt of his shotgun.

He swung in one swift, forceful movement. The stock struck Mark along the jaw.

Mark’s eyes turned upward, and his legs gave way. He fell backward onto the porch boards with the limp weight of a body gone slack. His phone bounced away and landed in the grass.

Arthur stood over him for several seconds. He didn’t bend to check whether Mark was alive, and he didn’t glance around to see who might have witnessed it.

Then he reached down, seized the collar of Mark’s expensive suit, and pulled him over the threshold. From behind the basement window, I watched Arthur drag my unconscious husband inside.