The Murder Outside His Mistress's Closet

My husband's body moved over Celeste's, driving into her with brutal force.

She wrapped her legs around his waist, moaning like she did for her three million followers—except this performance was just for him.

I was her assistant. Her best friend, supposedly. Which is how I knew her passcode.

Now I was wedged in the back of her bedroom closet, phone aimed through the gap in the slats, ready to catch the bastard in the act.

Then Celeste's moans ripped into a scream. The mattress lurched violently. Blood poured down the sheets in thick rivers.

Her head hit the floor. Rolled. Stopped right in front of the closet.

Those wide eyes met mine through the darkness.

Every drop of blood drained from my body.

Vincent had... he'd cut off her head?

My phone was still gripped in my fist. I'd come here to catch him cheating. Not witness a murder.

On the bed, Vincent made no sound. Just that sickening thud of blade meeting flesh. Again. Again. Again.

I bit down on my knuckles, tasting blood, tears streaming hot down my face.

That wet chopping continued. Each second stretched into forever.

Finally, silence.

He leaned back against the blood-soaked headboard, breathing hard. Pulled out a cigarette. Lit it.

Two drags, then he picked up his phone. Casual. Like he hadn't just butchered someone.

My phone exploded in my hand.

The screen lit up the darkness like a flare.

Vincent. FaceTime.

My heart stopped. I flipped it face-down, pressed it against my ribs.

But in the dead quiet, that buzzing might as well have been a fire alarm.

"Hmm?"

The mattress creaked. Through the gap, I watched him sit up, cigarette dangling from his lips, eyes sweeping the room.

I bit down harder, fingers shaking as I jabbed the side button.

The vibration stopped.

Then started again immediately.

He was calling back.

Ring. Ring. Ring.

After an eternity, it went to voicemail.

A voice message popped up.

"Baby, you still up? Got an emergency surgery. Won't make it home tonight."

His feet hit the floor.

Blood had pooled across the marble. Each step made a horrible squelch, leaving dark red prints across the white carpet.

He paced the room, head down, searching for something.

Then he coughed. Twice. Sharp and sudden.

I flinched so hard my shoulder hit the back panel.

Through the slats, I could see Celeste's head lying three feet away.

That face—always perfect on camera—now slack and colorless on the floor. Her lashes still curled. Her eyes still open, staring straight at the closet over the ragged stump of her neck.

Vincent circled the room twice. Found nothing.

He walked to the armchair in the corner, dug through the pile of his discarded clothes.

When he straightened, he was holding a bone saw.

He came back. Stopped two feet from the closet.

The sawing started. Methodical. Precise. Like he was in an operating room instead of carving up his mistress.

His foot bumped something. The head rolled toward me, slammed against the gap.

I could smell the blood in her hair.

Panic took over. I shoved my finger through the slats, pushed it away hard.

Vincent stepped forward at the same moment.

Thunk.

He kicked the head aside without looking, sent it spinning into the far corner.

Then he froze.

Blood dripped from the saw teeth. Plip. Plip. Plip.

Don't look. Don't look. Don't—

He stared at the floor. Five seconds. Ten.

Finally moved toward the corner.

I didn't breathe.

Celeste had installed deadbolts on every window after a stalker tried to break in last year. There was no way out. I had to wait. Had to stay silent until he left.

But the blood was spreading.

The dark pool crept across the floor, seeping under the closet door. I pressed back against the rear panel, pulled my feet up into the hanging clothes.

Vincent returned to the bed. Kept working.

Thwack.

An arm slid off the mattress. Hit the floor hard.

Directly in front of the closet.

Fatal distance.

If he bent down, he'd see straight through the bottom gap. Straight to me.

He lowered himself. Knees bending. That tall frame folding down, down, down.

I clamped both hands over my mouth. Tears flooded my eyes. Waiting for the moment our eyes would meet.

His fingers reached out. An inch from that pale wrist.

Someone knocked at the door.