Chapter 3 - MY HUSBAND HAD BEEN BUILDING A STORY ABOUT ME
Christopher came home at 6:41 carrying flowers.
White lilies.
I hated lilies.
He knew that.
For fourteen years, he knew.
That was when I understood the flowers weren’t for me.
They were for the picture.
The grieving husband buys flowers.
The loving husband brings pastries.
The concerned husband tells friends his wife has been having a hard time.
By the time police finished quietly checking the house, they had shown me something I had not noticed because I had been living inside it.
Christopher had been constructing a version of me.
Not the real Gwen Holloway.
A second Gwen.
Fragile.
Anxious.
Unstable.
Three months earlier, he had emailed my sister from our shared account:
Gwen hasn’t been sleeping much.
I never wrote it.
Two weeks later, he texted our neighbor:
If Gwen seems distant, don’t take it personally. She’s overwhelmed.
He had told our accountant I was “taking a break from decisions.”
He had canceled two restoration consultations on my behalf and told the clients I was dealing with a health problem.
I had assumed he was helping because my mother had been sick that winter.
Now every small act looked different.
He wasn’t covering for me.
He was creating witnesses.
Dinner was nearly impossible.
Christopher poured wine.
I didn’t drink it.
He noticed.
“You’re really not feeling well.”
“I told you.”
His eyes softened.
Too soft.
“Maybe you should make an appointment.”
“With who?”
“A therapist.”
There it was.
I smiled.
“For a stomachache?”
He laughed.
“You know what I mean.”
“No. What do you mean?”
For one second, something flickered in his eyes.
Then disappeared.
“You’ve seemed stressed.”
“Have I?”
“Yes.”
“How long?”
He leaned back.
“A while.”
I folded my napkin.
“Funny.”
“What?”
“No one else has said anything.”
That was a mistake.
Tiny.
But I saw his attention sharpen.
Then he smiled.
“Maybe they’re being polite.”
I changed the subject.
Toby.
Christopher asked why he was still at Mason’s.
“School project.”
“Overnight again?”
“Apparently.”
“I’ll pick him up.”
My hand tightened beneath the table.
“No.”
Christopher looked up.
“He said Mason’s mom is taking them tomorrow.”
“He should come home.”
“Why?”
“He lives here.”
The sentence should have been normal.
It wasn’t.
I shrugged.
“He’s seventeen.”
“That doesn’t mean he decides.”
There was irritation now.
Control slipping.
I smiled carefully.
“I’ll tell him you miss him.”
Christopher’s jaw moved once.
Then he poured himself more wine.
After dinner, he asked whether I wanted tea.
“No.”
“You always have tea.”
“Not tonight.”
His expression changed again.
This time I knew.
He was measuring.
Food.
Drink.
Access.
I went upstairs at nine.
Not to sleep.
To wait.
Lena had placed two officers in an unmarked vehicle down the road.
They were not inside because we still lacked probable cause for arrest.
A suspicious search history, forged-looking paper fragment, policies I disputed, and my account of the syringe were serious.
But serious and immediate arrest were not the same thing.
That infuriated Toby when I explained it.
“They wait until he does something?”
“No.”
“Sounds like it.”
I understood his anger.
I shared it.
At 10:17, Christopher came into the bedroom.
He stood in the doorway.
“You okay?”
“Yes.”
He walked closer.
I had never been afraid of his footsteps before.
That changed everything.
He sat on his side of the bed.
“Gwen.”
“What?”
“Are you happy?”
I almost laughed.
What kind of question was that?
“Generally.”
“With me?”
My pulse increased.
“Why are you asking?”
“I’ve been thinking.”
“About?”
“Us.”
He looked toward the window.
“I feel like you don’t trust me anymore.”
I stared.
He had no idea how absurd the sentence sounded.
“What makes you say that?”
“You’ve been distant today.”
One day.
That was all it took.
He was watching me as carefully as I was watching him.
I forced a yawn.
“I barely slept.”
“Because of the power?”
“Yes.”
His face relaxed slightly.
Then:
“I’m sorry you were scared.”
My skin went cold.
He had been the thing I was hiding from.
“I’m okay.”
He touched my knee.
I didn’t move.
Then he said:
“If anything happened to you, I don’t know what Toby and I would do.”
I looked directly at him.
There are moments when your life becomes divided into before and after.
That sentence was one.
Before, I knew he might want me dead.
After, I understood he had practiced being the widower.
I stood.
“Shower.”
He nodded.
In the bathroom, I locked the door.
My phone vibrated once.
Toby.
One image.
He had found another file.
A calendar invitation between Christopher and someone named M. PRICE.
COLUMBUS.
Tomorrow.
9:30 A.M.
Subject:
G. COMPLETION.
I sent it to Lena.
She called immediately.
“Who is M. Price?”
“I don’t know.”
“Insurance broker?”
“Maybe.”
“Doctor?”
“Maybe.”
“Christopher has a business contact named Mallory Price?”
I froze.
Mallory.
I knew that name.
She had sent us Christmas cards for years.
Christopher described her as a regional insurance consultant he sometimes worked with.
Forty.
Divorced.
Blond.
Strong perfume.
The smell on Christopher when he hugged me that morning.
My stomach turned.
“He smelled like perfume.”
Lena was silent.
Then:
“Do not assume affair means accomplice.”
“I know.”
But my heart had already begun rearranging fourteen years.
Christopher returned to bed.
I pretended to sleep.
At 5:50 the next morning, he left for “the office.”
He did not know two investigators followed.
At 9:26, Christopher entered a private insurance office in Columbus.
Mallory Price arrived seven minutes later.
At 10:18, she left carrying a red folder.
At 10:26, Christopher left separately.
No arrest.
No dramatic confrontation.
Instead, police obtained enough to begin asking questions about policy origination.
By late afternoon, Lena called.
“Gwen.”
“What?”
“You need to sit down.”
I already was.
“The policies were issued through three different carriers.”
“How?”
“Two appear to have electronic signatures.”
“Not mine.”
“I believe you.”
“And third?”
“Business-related key-person policy.”
I laughed.
“I don’t work for Christopher’s company.”
“According to the application, you do.”
My stomach dropped.
“What?”
“You’re listed as a strategic consultant and forty-percent beneficial owner.”
“That’s false.”
“I know.”
“Why would he do that?”
“Higher insurable interest.”
My skin crawled.
My husband had manufactured a business relationship on paper to justify insuring me for millions.
Lena continued.
“There’s something else.”
Of course.
“Mallory Price processed two of the applications.”
“And the third?”
“Different broker.”
“Does Mallory know they’re fraudulent?”
“We don’t know.”
“Can you ask?”
“We are.”
Then:
“Gwen, Christopher’s company is in trouble.”
“How bad?”
“Preliminary numbers show at least eleven million dollars in losses.”
I went still.
“He told me business was having its best year.”
“It isn’t.”
“What happened?”
“Bad investments. Two lawsuits. A credit line that may have been misrepresented.”
My mind went back over everything.
New suits.
Dinners.
Trips.
The performance of success.
“The insurance…”
“Could solve a lot.”
Twenty-four million.
Debt erased.
Business saved.
Widower comforted.
House inherited.
Then I remembered something.
“My house.”
“What?”
“The mansion is mine.”
“Yes.”
“Premarital inheritance.”
“Yes.”
“Christopher always wanted me to put it into a family trust.”
“Did you?”
“No.”
“Good.”
I stood so quickly my chair scraped.
“He asked me again last month.”
“Why?”
“He said estate planning.”
Silence.
“Gwen.”
My stomach dropped.
“What?”
“If you die, what does your current will say?”
I closed my eyes.
Christopher and I had signed wills twelve years ago.
Everything to surviving spouse.
Then Toby.
I had never changed mine.
The house was worth nearly five million dollars now.
Suddenly the number was no longer twenty-four.
It was twenty-nine.
Maybe more.
Then Lena said:
“Mallory agreed to speak.”
“Voluntarily?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“She looked terrified when investigators mentioned your name.”
That surprised me.
“Does she know me?”
“Apparently more than you know her.”
I felt cold.
“What does that mean?”
“Her first sentence was, ‘Is Gwen alive?’”
I stopped breathing.
Not Is she okay.
Not what happened.
Is Gwen alive.
Lena continued.
“And then Mallory started crying.”
That evening, Christopher came home cheerful.
Too cheerful.
He kissed my cheek.
“Big day.”
I smiled.
“Good?”
“Very.”
He went upstairs.
His phone stayed on kitchen island.
For once, I did not touch it.
I didn’t need to.
Lena texted two minutes later.
MALLORY SAYS CHRISTOPHER TOLD HER YOU WOULD BE DEAD BY FRIDAY.
It was Wednesday.
I looked toward the stairs.
Forty-eight hours.
That was the timeline.
Then a second message arrived.
SHE SAYS THE SYRINGE WAS NOT THE ORIGINAL PLAN.
I stared.
There had been another plan.
And apparently Christopher had abandoned it because Toby was home too often.
May you like
My son hadn’t only warned me.
Without knowing it, he had already interrupted his father once.
Related Stories
