Read Online The Perfect Husband by Lisa Gardner - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Lisa Gardner
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pillowcase. He was going to make her touch something. Something she didn't want to touch.
Her hand was buried into a glass jar. Round, firm, and moist shapes slid around her fingertips. “Eyeballs,” he whispered. “I saved the eyeballs from all my past wives.”
He yanked her hand back and plunged it into something else. Hair. Long and smooth and sickeningly damp at the ends. “Scalped 'em too,” he hissed.
Again he yanked her hand back and plunged her fisted fingers into something else. Squishy and tangled and oily. Caught on her fingers, twisted around her fingers.
“Guts. Lots and lots of guts.
“And here, baby, is my crowning achievement. Her heart. Her warm, pulsing heart.”
Her hand was forcefully closed around the mass. His fingers curled around her throat. Tightening, tightening, tightening as his breathing accelerated with excitement in her ear.
“You have no idea who I am, Theresa. You have no idea.”
And just as the spots formed before her eyes, just as the abyss opened before her and she knew she could fall right in and never have to think again, his fingers let her go and the air rushed into her oxygen-starved lungs.
The blindfold was snatched from her eyes. She was staring down at blood, so much blood. She turned, too horrified to run.
She saw his face clearly. His leering, cold face.
J. T. Dillon smirking down at her with coal-black eyes.
TESS WOKE UP harshly, the scream ripe on her lips, her heart pounding in her chest. She clutched her fist to her throat, gasping for breath. Sweat trickled down her cheeks like tears.
A pause, then she scampered out of the strange bed and turned on every light she could find. The room had hardly any lamps. She needed more light, lots and lots more to dispel the shadows lurking in the corners.
She found herself in front of the closet doors, securely blockaded by a chair.
Open the damn doors. Know that he's gone, that you won, you won
.
Suddenly with a cry of rage she kicked the chair away, grabbed the handle, and yanked the door open.
“Come on, where are you, you bastard?”
Only empty hangers stared back at her. She took a deep breath, then another, until her body stopped shaking.
You're in Arizona. You're safe. There is no blood on your hands.
It was a cow's heart. A cow's heart, linguine in olive oil, silk threads, and peeled grapes. Stuff from a grade-school haunted house.
“Look around you, Theresa,” Jim had said after he'd snapped on the basement light. “Look at what you're so terrified of. If you're willing to believe peeled grapes are eyeballs, no wonder you look at me and see a monster.”
She collapsed on the ground.
He squatted down until he was eye level. “I told you not to come into the basement, but you did. You're so determined to think I'm doing something wrong. Why do you think so little of your husband, Theresa? Why are you so determined to be afraid of me?”
She wasn't able to summon an answer.
“You know what I think? I think you have really low self-esteem, Theresa. I think your father and his abusive behavior taught you to think of yourself as nothing. And now you have this handsome, charming, decorated police officer who loves you and you just can't believe that, can you? Rather than accept that a good man loves you, you wonder what's wrong with me. You obsess that there must be something wrong with me. I suggest you stop focusing on my problems, Theresa, and spend a little bit more time contemplating yours.”
He left the basement.
She remained on the floor actually wondering why she questioned her perfect husband.
Jim had been that good.
Then other memories, other images overwhelmed her. Jim's hands around her throat, squeezing, releasing, caressing, soothing, choking. The baseball bat arching up, looking like a fairy's wand in the moon-light. Whistling down. Her thigh cracking…
She ran for the door, undid the lock, and made it to the bathroom just in time to be violently ill.
“Was it
Her hand was buried into a glass jar. Round, firm, and moist shapes slid around her fingertips. “Eyeballs,” he whispered. “I saved the eyeballs from all my past wives.”
He yanked her hand back and plunged it into something else. Hair. Long and smooth and sickeningly damp at the ends. “Scalped 'em too,” he hissed.
Again he yanked her hand back and plunged her fisted fingers into something else. Squishy and tangled and oily. Caught on her fingers, twisted around her fingers.
“Guts. Lots and lots of guts.
“And here, baby, is my crowning achievement. Her heart. Her warm, pulsing heart.”
Her hand was forcefully closed around the mass. His fingers curled around her throat. Tightening, tightening, tightening as his breathing accelerated with excitement in her ear.
“You have no idea who I am, Theresa. You have no idea.”
And just as the spots formed before her eyes, just as the abyss opened before her and she knew she could fall right in and never have to think again, his fingers let her go and the air rushed into her oxygen-starved lungs.
The blindfold was snatched from her eyes. She was staring down at blood, so much blood. She turned, too horrified to run.
She saw his face clearly. His leering, cold face.
J. T. Dillon smirking down at her with coal-black eyes.
TESS WOKE UP harshly, the scream ripe on her lips, her heart pounding in her chest. She clutched her fist to her throat, gasping for breath. Sweat trickled down her cheeks like tears.
A pause, then she scampered out of the strange bed and turned on every light she could find. The room had hardly any lamps. She needed more light, lots and lots more to dispel the shadows lurking in the corners.
She found herself in front of the closet doors, securely blockaded by a chair.
Open the damn doors. Know that he's gone, that you won, you won
.
Suddenly with a cry of rage she kicked the chair away, grabbed the handle, and yanked the door open.
“Come on, where are you, you bastard?”
Only empty hangers stared back at her. She took a deep breath, then another, until her body stopped shaking.
You're in Arizona. You're safe. There is no blood on your hands.
It was a cow's heart. A cow's heart, linguine in olive oil, silk threads, and peeled grapes. Stuff from a grade-school haunted house.
“Look around you, Theresa,” Jim had said after he'd snapped on the basement light. “Look at what you're so terrified of. If you're willing to believe peeled grapes are eyeballs, no wonder you look at me and see a monster.”
She collapsed on the ground.
He squatted down until he was eye level. “I told you not to come into the basement, but you did. You're so determined to think I'm doing something wrong. Why do you think so little of your husband, Theresa? Why are you so determined to be afraid of me?”
She wasn't able to summon an answer.
“You know what I think? I think you have really low self-esteem, Theresa. I think your father and his abusive behavior taught you to think of yourself as nothing. And now you have this handsome, charming, decorated police officer who loves you and you just can't believe that, can you? Rather than accept that a good man loves you, you wonder what's wrong with me. You obsess that there must be something wrong with me. I suggest you stop focusing on my problems, Theresa, and spend a little bit more time contemplating yours.”
He left the basement.
She remained on the floor actually wondering why she questioned her perfect husband.
Jim had been that good.
Then other memories, other images overwhelmed her. Jim's hands around her throat, squeezing, releasing, caressing, soothing, choking. The baseball bat arching up, looking like a fairy's wand in the moon-light. Whistling down. Her thigh cracking…
She ran for the door, undid the lock, and made it to the bathroom just in time to be violently ill.
“Was it
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