Flipped: The Devil Inside Duology, #2

By Mark David Abbott

Matthew Wilson was the perfect husband... Until he wasn't.

 

Clara Wilson didn't want to admit that her marriage was steadily falling apart…

…until she discovered her husband planned to kill her.

You've read the husband's point of view. Now see it through the wife's eyes.
The exciting sequel novella to The Devil Inside.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mark David Abbott
• Release date: Nov 8, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223319030

Book preview

1

He had stopped moving.

Good... I think.

I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. There was a pounding in my chest and a ripple of fear coursed through my body, but I shook it off. No… I had been careful. I was always careful.

Tightening the sash around my gown, I knelt and looked closely at my husband.

He wasn’t breathing. Gently, I reached over and placed my fingertips on the side of his neck. I couldn’t feel a pulse. I moved my fingertips, just in case I had the wrong position, but still, there was nothing.

Exhaling slowly, I sat back on my heels. I had just killed my husband.

I held up my hands, turning them over, and looked at the palms. They weren’t shaking. They weren’t sweating. I scanned my body... Why wasn’t I feeling anything? Remorse, despair, regret... I frowned. Relief, perhaps? No, all I felt was... empty.

Was this how it ended?

The man I had once loved, who used to make me laugh, who cared for me. My confidant, my partner, my best friend.

I looked back at Matthew lying on the floor in front of me. He was half on his side, his left arm stretching away from him, his legs slightly akimbo. Reaching for his chin, I gently turned his head, so I could see his face. The eyes that once twinkled with mischief were empty. His face had thinned out considerably since he’d started running, but his strong, stubbled jaw line was now slack, his mouth hanging slightly open. No, he wasn’t the man I had loved. This was a different version of that man, a man I had come to despise.

A man who had tried to kill me.

2

Enough time for reminiscing.

For this to work, there were still things to do.

Pushing myself to my feet, I crossed over to the dining table and picked up the bottle and the two wine glasses. I took them into the kitchen, where I poured the contents into the sink, then turned on the tap, leaving it to run while I put the glasses in the dishwasher.

Removing two fresh glasses from the drinks cabinet, I placed them on the table, then walked into the bedroom and removed another bottle of Pinot Grigio from my handbag.

Matthew had often teased me about my handbag, wondering why I needed to carry something so big. Men. They didn’t understand what women had to carry around with them. Makeup, perfume, spare hairbands... extra bottles of wine.

Beads of condensation trickled down the side of the bottle, and the inside of the bag was damp. I had bought it chilled, and it had warmed up considerably, but it didn’t matter. It was all theater.

Using the duvet, I wiped the moisture off the bottle, then carried it to the dining table, where I twisted off the cap, splashed some wine into Matthew’s glass, swirling it around the sides, then poured a generous amount into mine before putting the bottle into the fridge.

I stood back and examined the scene.

Matthew’s fork was on the floor where he’d dropped it when he fell. His chair was at an odd angle, and there was ratatouille on the tablecloth and on the floor below.

My plate looked too perfect. I walked over, sat down, then reacted as if the man I loved had just had a heart attack. My chair fell backward as I jumped up, scattering my cutlery across the tablecloth. For good measure, I dropped some ratatouille down the front of my gown. It looked convincing but would be a nightmare to wash out.

Standing back, I surveyed the scene once more, then closed my eyes. I pictured Matthew in the early years when things had been perfect. Digging deep, I searched for those long-buried emotions, the love and affection, then imagined how I would have felt if anything had harmed him then. Remembering the acting tips I had researched online, I took a series of short, shallow breaths through my mouth, activating my sympathetic nervous system, the fight-or-flight response, while staring straight ahead, unblinking.

My heart beat faster, my hands trembled, and my eyes watered. The hours of practice in the office toilet were paying off. A tear ran down my cheek, then another, and my shoulders shook. I tugged on my gown, loosening the sash, then pulled at my hair, messing it up, a loose strand falling across my face and clinging to the moisture on my cheek. My shoulders shook more, and I released a loud sob, then ran across the living room to the bedroom. I grabbed my handbag, tipped it out onto the bed, scattering the contents, and rummaged through them for my phone. Stabbing at the screen with my fingertip, I dialed 999.

Someone answered almost immediately.

Help, help, my husband has collapsed... I sobbed into the phone. He’s not moving...

The operator was calm, competent, as if nothing could faze him. I gasped the address into the phone and added, Please hurry, before hanging up.

I took a deep breath, then turned on the selfie camera on the phone and examined my reflection. With my spare hand, I rubbed my right eye, smudging the mascara onto my cheek, ruffled my hair a little more, then satisfied with my appearance, walked back to the dining table.

Sitting in my chair, I looked down at Matthew.

They’ll be here in about five minutes, I imagine.

He didn’t answer, but then why would he? He was dead.

Raising my wineglass to my lips, I took a big gulp and licked my lips. It was too warm but not bad.

Cheers, Matty.

3

SIX MONTHS EARLIER...

Islowed for the turn, the exhausts popping and crackling as the Audi downshifted smoothly. Keeping the speed low, I cruised down the street toward our house at the end of the cul-de-sac.

It had been a long day, made worse by an argument with that shitbag, Mike. He’d always resented my success, treating it as a