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Tilda pulled her nondescript, beige jacket around her, hugging the walls of the neighbors’ garages as she snuck through their yards. She doubted she’d been spotted as the sky remained gray, and it was almost dark.
When she got to Dude’s yard, she reached above the doorframe for the garage key that had been hidden there, in the same place, for more than fifteen years and easily unlocked the door. The garage was dark and shuttered against the light. She saw Constance’s car, a pale silver Buick Regal and noticed a new bright red sports car Nicholas must have gotten for Mike Jr. She continued to gaze around the garage. She hadn’t been there for a few years but little had changed. The work benches were just as she remembered, and the tools as organized as Dr. Smirkowitz’s dental surgery area. She smiled at the tool belt on the bench and remembered, her heart racing, the night she and Dr. Dude had cooked dinner in Constance’s perfect kitchen, and he’d worn only his tool belt. Now, that was a night to remember. Her mind enjoyed a surge of endorphins that soothed her stress.
Tilda moved quietly toward the stoop and door that led into the utility room. She turned the knob, and the door opened easily. The washer and dryer were brand new and the room smelled fresh, like laundry detergent and fabric softener. She moved to the laundry room door and listened. She didn't hear any noise at all in the kitchen, so she entered quietly. A half-full bottle of merlot and an assortment of cheeses were on the counter along with an unused wine glass. Tilda picked up the bottle of wine and sniffed the bouquet. She detected the scent of black cherries and tannin. For a moment, she considered pouring herself a glass but decided against it. She didn’t want to leave any DNA evidence. She smiled to herself. Nicholas had taught her everything she knew about wine, and now she loved vino dearly. But only good red wine. No Boone’s Farm or sweet swill for her, like those bumpkin friends of Wilbur’s drank.
Tilda continued to hold the bottle and admire it. She traced the beautifully designed black and gold label with her fingertip. She memorized the Virginia Estate Vineyard and the vintage year. Sometimes at the office, after everyone had left for the day, she and Nicholas would share a bottle of merlot or a cabernet. Then they would huff a little nitrous oxide from the tank and laugh for at least an hour before making incredible love on the expensive Aubusson carpet in his office Constance had purchased for him years ago. Sex on the floor of his office was always hot and passionate. Oftentimes, they would “do the dirty” under his expansive walnut desk. Tilda shivered in delight as she remembered the day one of the dental technicians had almost caught them. It had been sensual and heady. Sex in his office had been the best days of her life. But Nicholas seemed busy lately, so preoccupied that there’d not been a day like that for months. At first, she’d thought it was his new wife who would be her rival, but that fear was short-lived. Within a month or so of his second marriage, Nicholas was hers again. It was as if they were made for each other and that they lived in their own world.
He’s my Adonis, I’m his Venus. We complete each other.
Nothing and no one would ever keep them apart because they were made to be together. Tilda’s heartbeat increased and her blood warmed as she thought of her lover.
She was jerked out of her daydream by the scraping of a chair against the floor. They’re in the dining room. How stupid am I not to have figured as much. She quickly moved behind the wall that jutted out from the refrigerator as a tall, attractive dark-haired man entered the kitchen and grabbed the bottle of red wine on the counter and left. She heard the sound of Constance’s voice and her tinkling laughter as the man reentered the dining room with the bottle of wine. Hate and fury grabbed her at the sound of Constance’s laugh. Where did she find a boyfriend? Maybe she'd marry him and give up her alimony. Fat chance. She knew exactly how much of Nicholas’s income the bitch got every month. For some reason, the knowledge of Constance’s boyfriend enraged and consumed her, and her eyes darted over to the block of knives on the counter next to the stove. She selected an eight-inch deboning knife and admired the sharpness of the stainless-steel blade. She rubbed the wooden handle with her index finger and ran her fingers up and down the cool metal in a strange caress. She pricked her finger with the point.
It looks like I have more than one person to take care of. Nicholas would be upset if I left a witness.
Tilda placed her handbag on the island and smiled at the glint of steel in her purse. She reached in and touched her gun - for luck - then snuck around the side of the refrigerator and passed through the butler's pantry. She flattened her body against the wall shelves to peer into the dining room. Under the Baccarat crystal chandelier and beautifully reflected in the antique gold mirror, was Constance. Her image was exquisite. Her opera-length, fifteen-millimeter creamy white pearls adorned her neck, and she wore a white silk blouse with a deep V that showed just enough cleavage to make her enticing. A gold watch and several gold and pearl bracelets adorned her wrists. Her diamond—her five-karat solitaire diamond—surrounded with platinum and smaller diamonds, reflected prisms of light from the chandelier. Tilda’s blood boiled as she remembered when Nicholas had shown her the diamond years before, and then told her it was for Constance. She’d never gotten over it. Twelve-year-old daughter Sarah, unattractive and frumpy in her St. Catherine's school uniform, sat across from her. Constance’s boyfriend was at the head of the table in Nicholas’s seat. Mike Jr. was not present. Tilda was crazed at the sight, and the voices were biting at her brain and causing a frenzy in her head. She covered her head with her arm in an attempt to silence them.
Tilda took several moments to devise a quick plan. She returned to the kitchen where she pulled her Glock out of her handbag, screwed the silencer on the barrel and grabbed the carving knife from the counter. Then she grabbed a stainless and copper metal pan and threw it on the ceramic floor as hard as she could.
Within seconds, the tall man rushed into the kitchen frantically looking for the source of the noise. Tilda darted from behind her hiding place by the refrigerator and shot him directly in the chest. Red spread across his white shirt, and blood spurted all over the kitchen as he fell to the floor.
I must have nicked his aorta. Cool.
The man lay bleeding profusely on the kitchen floor as Tilda watched his pupils widen and glaze in death. A thrill raced through her, and she laughed happily. The entire scene had taken less than a minute. Then, the voices urged her forward. She picked up her eight-inch knife and walked into the dining room, the gun in her right hand and the knife in her left. Constance rose from her seat, standing by the table and staring at her, unable to speak or move. Sarah sat still, a fork full of food halfway to her mouth. They looked paralyzed in place.
"Tilda, what are you doing here?" Constance cried, panic in her eyes. “Where’s my friend? Where’s John? Have you hurt him?" Her voice rose to a screech. “Did I hear a gunshot? Where’s John?”
Tilda laughed loudly and pushed her hair out of her face. "Oh, John. So that’s his name. I didn’t know you had a boyfriend.”
Constance stared at her but remained silent, her eyes wide with fear.
“Of course I’ve hurt him, Constance. He’s dead,” she replied, her face in a snarl as she mimicked Constance’s hysterical voice.
“He’s dead?” Constance screamed. “Are you crazy?” she asked as she rushed toward her daughter.
Tilda gestured her forward. “Come on, come on closer,” she whispered as she brandished the knife that reflected dancing shadows onto the dining room ceiling.
Constance stood still, her mouth open in horror as her eyes searched Sarah’s eyes attempting to offer reassurance.
“Look at me, bitch.” Tilda’s crazed eyes locked with Constance’s ice green ones. “Nicholas sent me here to hurt you, too. He can’t have you making trouble for him.” She hissed the words as she moved closer to the paralyzed woman and the voices exploded in her head.
“What are you talking about?” Constance asked, her face confused and streaked with fear. She moved to the end of the massive dining room table.
“That's all you've ever been—a burden and trouble for Nicholas. And besides, you got in the way of the love that Nicholas and I have for each other," she hissed as she waved the knife around in the light of the chandelier with the stainless-steel glinting on the tray ceiling.
Constance shook her head, "You’re crazy. Nicholas would never have anything to do with someone like you. He has better taste than that." Constance spat as Tilda approached her with the knife."
Sarah jumped on Tilda's back and swatted at her with her hands, screaming, "Don't you touch my mother. I'm gonna call the police."
"I don't think so, little Sarah, you ugly duckling," Tilda hissed as she jerked the girl off her back and body-slammed her on the marble dining room floor. "Just so you know, your father hates you and thinks you're ugly, and so do I." Tilda looked like a monster in the candlelight.
Sarah lay on the floor, blood oozing from the back of her head, with her dark hair, so much like her mother's hair, spread around her head.
The young girl cried out in agony, "My mother is right. You’re crazy. My father loves me."
Tilda shook her head again and a large smile spreading across her face. "No, he doesn't. He thinks you’re fat and ugly and that's why I'm gonna kill you. And your dad won't even care."
Sarah stared up at Tilda as tears gushed from her eyes and the pool of blood from her head wound widened and sprawled across the white-veined marble floor. Sarah struggled to get up, her mouth open in disbelief.
Tilda kicked her down on to the floor and struck the child in the side of her head with her muddy boot.
“Stop it, stop it,” Constance screamed. “I’m coming, baby, Momma’s coming.”
Tilda gave her an evil smile. “Come on around and join the party, Constance. It’ll be fun,” Tilda goaded, as the helpless woman slid around the banquet table holding on to the sides for support.
Tilda watched Constance move closer to Sarah as she placed her bloodied boot on Sarah’s abdomen. “Stay down, you little bitch,” she jeered. “And don’t try to sit up again.”
Sarah’s enormous eyes stared at Tilda as she tried to speak. The words wouldn’t come and she reverted to her childhood stutter. “Why... why are you doing this to us? My, my, my fa... fa... father is your friend, your boss.”
Tilda stared down at the child. “Your father loves me and has since before you were born, and he’ll be my husband someday, so shut up.” To prove her point, Tilda kicked Sarah violently in the head again.
Nicholas loves you, Nicholas loves you, the voices rattled over and over in her brain. Kill her, Kill her, Kill, the voices demanded.
Sarah lay on the floor, gasping for air. She shook violently. "Please, please . . ." she pleaded quietly as she looked up at Tilda looming over her.
“Shut up, Sarah, and don’t beg,” Tilda hissed. “I hate people who beg." Her voice was loud and harsh as the stared down at the helpless child. A moment later, Constance lunged at her with a steak knife, her eyes wide with fury and disbelief.
Tilda grabbed Constance by her long dark hair and knocked the steak knife from her hand. She set her Glock on the table and yanked Constance’s face close to her own.
“Oh, Constance, how long I’ve waited for this day,” she purred. “I’ve wanted to hurt you for a very long time, forever, actually.” She spoke softly as she locked eyes with her arch rival.
The two women stared at each other for several seconds before Tilda, enraged more than ever by the screaming voices in her head, ripped a handful of hair from her Constance’s head and tossed it to the floor. Blood seeped from Constance’s scalp.
Constance gasped but remained silent, her eyes locked with Tilda’s. “You’re insane, you’re totally insane,” she whispered, her green eyes wide with realization and fury.
“Oh, aren’t we the brave one,” Tilda said. “Let’s see how well you handle this.”
Constance stared dully as Tilda held her by her hair. She moved her right arm up slowly, the gunmetal shining in the light of the chandelier, raised the weapon slowly and targeted her prey.
Constance jerked forward and grabbed her arm, but Tilda easily overpowered her, took aim and shot Sarah between the eyes, destroying the countenance that was so much like the man she loved. Sarah’s face, a mass of blood and tissue, was unrecognizable.
Tilda looked at what was left of twelve-year-old Sarah’s face and laughed, snorting with glee. “She ain’t looking too good now is she, Constance? Guess we won’t ever know if she’ll have your looks, you know, to see if the ugly duckling turns into a swan.” Tilda continued to laugh at her own jokes as the voices in her head laughed with her.
Nicholas will be so happy that I’ve done this. I need to hurry up and call him.
Constance howled and kicked Tilda in the shins trying to push herself toward her daughter’s lifeless body.
Tilda’s legs bowed over, but she righted herself and with a quick arm sweep, clutched Constance’s hair again and pulled her forward as she grabbed her throat with her other hand and squeezed.
Constance’s deep green eyes become larger and larger as Tilda squeezed the life out of her. Constance clawed and scraped, but her movements were useless and made Tilda angrier.
Squeeze, squeeze, squeeze, harder, harder, harder, the voices instructed as Tilda hefted the knife and plunged it under Constance’s left breast. She saw Constance’s eyes widen with pain, but only for a moment. Tilda was orgasmic with joy, but it was short lived.
The voices again urged her forward. Tilda was so angry, the strength of her fingers broke Constance's neck and robbed her of the pleasure she’d had long dreamed of—the pleasure of watching her nemesis die a slow death. She tossed Constance’s body on the long walnut dining table and overturned a glass of wine in the process. Tilda watched, mesmerized as the merlot spread over the dead woman’s silk blouse and mingled with the thick blood that was spurting over the table from her chest wound. She snatched the coveted pearls from her neck, the pearls that had long symbolized the life she couldn’t have. Tilda wanted to take Constance’s enormous diamond ring, but she was disrupted by the sound of an alarm. She saw blue lights reflected in the snow from the side of the house. Constance must have set off the alarm system.
I've gotta get out of here. Now!
She took one more look at the bodies and the beautiful dining room and smiled to herself as she briefly watched the light reflect from the crystal chandelier onto the blood-covered floor. It was a beautiful sight. She grabbed her gun from the table, rushed through the kitchen and jumped over the body of the tall stranger, leaving the house the same way she’d entered.
Images and memories flooded her brain as she made her escape through the garage and the back alley to her car. It had been a good day’s work. She darted through the snow to her truck and drove quietly along the back roads of the subdivision as she headed home. That was some trip to Walmart, as she pulled the Walmart bag from her purse and filled it with the dish detergent she’d left in the truck earlier in the week. Wilbur must never know where she’d been.
She turned up her radio and took a final sip of her energy drink. Damn, life was good.