Abigail (8)

Abigail (8)
~ Mrs Stockholm ~

My husband, Michael, returns home late.

I hear the low rumble of his car pulling into the driveway, but no horn follows.

I wait on the living room sofa, expecting the front door to open, but minutes pass and the engine just idles outside.

Unease coils in my stomach.

I stand, smooth my dress, and step out into the night air.

The car sits near the entrance, its engine humming softly.

Through the tinted glass, I can see Michael leaning hard over the steering wheel.

I knock twice on the window.

He rolls it down slowly, not bothering to lift his head.

A sour smell hits my nose first, sharp and metallic, like stale urine mixed with cheap perfume. I bury my questions for a moment and grip his shoulder, trying to pull him upright.

“Hey,” I say, keeping my voice low. “Why are you sitting out here? Come inside.”

He doesn't move.

“Michael,” I tug harder on his shirt. “It’s late. What’s the problem?”

When he finally raises his head, my breath hitches.

His eyes are bloodshot, his cheeks slick with tears. He looks entirely broken.

Before I can ask if he’s been in a fight, his trembling voice cuts me off.

“The priest is dead.”

I stare at him, stunned.

It sounds like a ridiculous joke—a cheap lie to cover up why his car smells like an alleyway and why someone else’s perfume is clinging to his shirt.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” I snap, waving a hand. “That’s not funny.”

He collapses back against the wheel, a choked sob tearing from his throat.

“I’m not lying,” he chokes out, his voice raw. “Father Romanus is dead.”

Before I can even process his words, a distant scream pierces the quiet of our neighborhood.

Then another.

Wailing breaks out down the street, spreading from house to house like wildfire.

Michael remains slouched in the driver’s seat, his shoulders shaking.

No.

It's not possible.

I was with him just hours ago. How could a man so full of life earlier today be dead now?

Michael wipes his face with his sleeve and stumbles out of the car. “He was found in the sanctuary,” he mutters, his voice flat with shock. “Someone called me, so I rushed over. He was lying cold on the floor in his robes... holding his rosary.”

He pauses, crossing his chest with a trembling hand.

“He died fighting demons,” Michael declares solemnly.

My hand flies to my chest.

I don't share his pious belief in demons.

My mind races to a far darker fear: Did I drain the life out of him earlier today? Did our encounter trigger a heart attack?

If the church wants to blame spiritual warfare, I'll gladly let them. It keeps the eyes off me.

“Come inside,” Michael says, wrapping a heavy arm around my shoulders. “You’re shaking.”

He leads me to the couch and hurries to the kitchen, returning with a bottle of water. As he uncaps it and hands it to me, he leans close—and another scent hits me.

It’s subtle, but undeniable—the sour, intimate smell of recent sex.

My stomach turns.

That isn't Father Romanus's cologne. It isn't mine, either.

Has my husband been sleeping with another woman while I was waiting for him?

Footsteps echo from the hallway before I can confront him.

Calista steps into the living room, rubbing her eyes. She doesn't look like she's been sleeping at all.

“What’s going on?” she asks softly. “Dad... you’re late.”

I press my lips together and lower my head, forcing myself to look grieved. Michael turns to her, already opening his mouth to deliver the tragedy himself.

“Father Romanus is dead, dear.”

Calista’s eyes widen, and without a sound, her knees buckle. She hits the floor hard.

“Calista!”

Michael rushes forward, scooping her into his arms before I can even move. He carries her into the dining room and lays her across the large table. I follow closely behind.

“You’re the nurse here!” Michael yells over his shoulder. “Do something!”

I snap out of my daze and check her pulse, watching her chest rise and fall.

She’s breathing normally.

I hurry to the medical storage cabinet.

By the time I return with the smelling salts, Calista is already awake, wrapped tightly in her father’s arms, both of them crying quietly.

A wave of disgust washes over me. I drop the medical supplies onto the table harder than necessary.

“I’m going to the church,” I say coldly, glaring at the pair of them. “I should join the other women in mourning.”

Michael looks up from our daughter, frowning. “You don’t have to go out there right now.”

“Sorry. You can’t stop me.”

I turn before he can argue.

I need to see the church for myself.

. . . .

The street is alive with grief. Hysterical women and grim-faced men march toward the church grounds. I fall into step with the crowd, but my mind isn't on the dead priest—it’s on the scent lingering on my husband.

I don’t head straight to the church. Instead, I make my way to Mrs. Monroe’s, not sure if the news has reached her yet.

As a woman brushes past me, wailing into a handkerchief, a familiar breeze carries her scent straight to my nose.

That same perfume.

I stop and turn slowly.

No.

"Abigail."

For a moment, I simply stare at her. Her face pales when our eyes meet.

I step closer.

“Abigail,” I repeat.

She swallows.

“What happened at the church?” I demand, digging my fingernails into her wrist. “My husband said you were in his car earlier when he went to see the priest.”

She opens her mouth, but no sound comes out. The terror in her wide eyes tells me everything.

I drop her hand like garbage. “It's okay, Abigail,” I say quietly. “Go home and be a good girl.”

She nods frantically and takes off running into the dark.

Michael is cheating on me with our daughter’s friend?

Too bad for both of them.

I watch Abigail disappear into the darkness before turning toward the road.

By the time I reach her estate, the chaos of the neighborhood has faded behind me. The house stands tall and silent, insulated from the commotion by rows of manicured trees.

As I approach the main gates, it’s clear the news hasn’t reached the estate yet.

Her young aide is standing near the driveway, mindlessly swinging a wooden practice sword through the air.

As I near the porch, he freezes and turns around with a bright, easy smile. “Mrs. Stockholm! Good evening.”

I brush past his warm greeting with a cold wave of my hand. “Where’s your mistress?”

“Inside,” he says, leaning in slightly. “She’s sleeping.”

Ignoring him, I push through the front doors. The old maid is sitting in the grand parlor, watching television. She jumps to her feet as I march past.

“Where is she?” I ask sharply.

“Upstairs, ma'am. In her bedroom.”

I know this mansion inside and out. I take the stairs two at a time and head straight down the carpeted hallway to Mrs. Monroe’s private quarters.

As I reach her door, muffled moans echo from within.

I roll my eyes.

Of course.

The cucumbers I had Calista deliver earlier are already being put to work.

Without knocking, I throw the door wide open.

Mrs. Monroe is sprawled across her king-sized bed, completely naked, her thighs spread wide as she works a thick cucumber in and out of herself.

An adult film plays quietly on TV, but her own breathless gasps drown out the audio.

I stand by the doorway, waiting patiently until she shudders, pulls the vegetable out, and tosses it carelessly onto the hardwood floor.

I clear my throat.

She flinches, turning her head sharply toward the door.

Her eyes meet mine, and she lets out an annoyed hiss.

“You didn’t tell me you were coming,” she grumbles, sitting up without bothering to cover herself.

“Because it’s an emergency,” I say, already heading for her closet.

She raises a brow. “Are you pregnant by one of your fuckboys?” she asks, eager to hear me break the news.

I slide open the mirrored doors, passing rows of body massagers and toys until I find her rack of designer clothes. I pull out a silk robe and toss it onto the bed.

“What is your problem tonight?” she asks, her tone turning hostile as she pulls the robe over her shoulders. “Why are you acting so strange?”

I look her dead in the eye. “The priest is dead.”

She blinks. The irritation drains from her face. “What do you mean, dead? Which priest?”

“Father Romanus. He was found dead in the sanctuary.”

Mrs. Monroe narrows her eyes, crossing her arms over her chest. “What killed him?”

I take a slow breath. “Nobody knows.”

Her expression changes.

Just for a second, but I see it.

Fear.

Or recognition.

Why isn’t she surprised that Father Romanus is dead?