While smashing the tips of the flower stems, so they could absorb fresh nutrients and water that filled the heavy crystal vase, it suddenly occurred to her that she could smash her third husband’s head in.
Asphyxiation and arsenic were out of the question, as Melisha didn’t want to draw attention to the first two mishaps in her marital career.
Smashing would be excellent. It would relieve her of the hatred that had been building. She could really pound it out, crush his skull, maybe bash an eye out while he begged for his life from her dead, psychopathic eyes. How fulfilling.
She could pay him back for the derogatory comments, for the affair and for making her dependent once again on a man for money. What’s a gorgeous young woman to do?
It would be his fault. He was the one seduced to elope after just days of dating. He was the one who kept her imprisoned in this kitchen, cooking things he demanded like a spoiled child. He was the one who lifted her skirts and made her feel sick with his perverted demands. He deserved it: to die.
A hammer might be nice. She would buy one on her walk to pick up fresh bread, apples and wine. She’d buy two bottles. He’d be an easy target, sloshed and expecting freaky sex.
It would be a break in – a robbery. The police would never suspect her. It would be too violent for a woman’s hand, especially one with a perfect French Manicure and such a sweet disposition. She’d have to buy a knife too – a sharp one, one that wouldn’t hurt her too much when “the robbers” ripped it across her own delicate face.
It’s decided then, she thought, pulling a perfect apple pie from the oven.
A soft roaring drew her attention to the window. As Adam rolled his Royce up the granite driveway, she poured him a Scotch and wrote him a quick note: Make yourself comfortable darling. I’m treating you right tonight. Then she slipped quietly out the back to buy wine and bread and a hammer…