In the Doghouse

Weeks of planning hinge on his predictability. Her heart pounds, her blood whooshes loudly in her ears. She hides. He crashes through the front door, yelling for her.

“Where are you, worthless woman? You’ll pay if I must come looking for you!”

Payment meant cracked ribs, or bruises, or skin split open with the point of his favorite Kasami filleting knife. A tool fit for the renowned Chef. If only his patrons knew.

She trembles. He bursts from the back door, so close she can smell him. He trashes the potting shed then heads for the doghouse. Her beloved Rufus is long gone – his name fading from the bleached wood.

“You love that mutt more than me” he proclaimed one day, grabbing a knife and heading outside.

She tried to stop him, but he pushed her down the stairs. She lay stunned, listening to the yelps.

Now, she watches him bend down to look inside. “Are you in here, barren bitch?” he taunts.

She rushes him from behind and smashes his head with the shovel. He tumbles, headfirst, into the deep hole concealed under the doghouse. She covers him with rocks and soil.

Two days later, the police follow up an anonymous tip about child pornography. They find evidence on his laptop. Collecting the material made her sick to her stomach, but it was convincing. They find air ticket receipts too.

She wrings her calloused hands, hardened by weeks of covert digging, and feigns surprise when asked to open the safe, only to discover it empty. She weeps and says she has no idea where he has gone.